


Practical Magic Below the Waist: How to Spark Joy, or, Five Easy Steps to Master Interspecies Relations

by earlylight, whetherwoman



Series: Tricks & Mortar [2]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: 5+1 Things, Acrophobia, Aerial Sexcrobatics, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, Exposure Therapy But Make It Sexy, Fairies, Fluff and Smut, Humor, M/M, Magical Biology, Oral Fixation, Parallel and Sequential Orgasms, Patrick and Ronnie's Star-Crossed Rivalry, Playing Fast and Loose with the Timeline as God and Dan Levy Intended, Season/Series 04, Sensory Deprivation, Sex Negotiation, The Dangers Posed By Macaroni, cameos from various other Schittizens and returning favorites, light D/s elements, taste play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:34:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24142921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlylight/pseuds/earlylight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whetherwoman/pseuds/whetherwoman
Summary: Figuring out how you fit together in the early stages of any relationship can be a challenge, but especially so if you and your new partner literally come from different dimensions of reality. David Rose, a human who now has extensive, hands-on experience in the subject matter, has got you covered.“Marie Kondo wants what we have!”— Patrick Brewer,* fairy, boyfriend to David Rose and small business co-owner*(received compensation for providing this quote)
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: Tricks & Mortar [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742251
Comments: 110
Kudos: 225





	Practical Magic Below the Waist: How to Spark Joy, or, Five Easy Steps to Master Interspecies Relations

**Author's Note:**

> As 2019 drew its last gasp, earlylight slid into whetherwoman’s DMs with a proposition: to co-write something of an epilogue to the urban fantasy AU she’d just published, delving into the mechanics of human-fairy sex. WW, a connoisseur of fine smut, was like, well as long as I don’t have to write jokes, and EL was like, GREAT, because my sexy writing skills leave much to be desired (pun intended) but I LOVE writing jokes (case in point). So EL sent over a thousand-word primer on fairy reproductive biology; an academic paper on the sensory capacity of insect wings was consulted after WW posited the question ‘could wings be an erogenous zone?’; sections of writing were literally printed out and rearranged; and, thus, what was meant to be a short PWP coda cannonballed into a straight-up novella length exploration of navigating a relationship in its early stages in a world where the Motorola RAZR is a magic conduit for wishes. In summary: like an unholy alliance between Frankenstein and Frank-N-Furter, we have created a monster. Enjoy!

It takes Patrick a while to find a place in town that passes muster, which is mainly—David admits—due to the fact that any potential candidate has to go through an additional screening process to make sure it passes muster on _David's_ end, too. Even though David's not, technically, going to be living there himself—especially in the beginning, during their research- and labor-intensive process of retrofitting the place to manage all the fairy dust, since they plan to have a _lot_ of it—so, they're not moving _in_ together so much as moving _towards_ something like conscious cohabitation, as the great Gwyneth Paltrow might put it. 

Anyway, now that the grand winner of the living-space sweepstakes has been announced (and thank fuck for Patrick's magic with the stock markets, that he doesn't have to settle for some studio with a curtain for a bathroom door and other Ray Butani-touted pieces of 'prime real-estate' in this town), David begins the onerous task of selecting a few choice articles of clothing and otherwise to take over for the nights he'll be spending there. Patrick had initially offered to take a whole box out of the motel and just flash it over, which David has already established is not something he's permitted to do without going through the correct protocol—as if you could just _toss_ Alexander McQueen through the fabric of reality like a _football_ , or something—so, after both insult and injury to David's couture sweater collection are taken off the table, he mainly stays out of the way. 

In fact, knowing Patrick, and the wry grin that prefaced his 'suggestion', this was probably his plan from the start—engineering the perfect excuse to lounge around on David's bed reading some business article on his phone, legs kicked up behind him, wings flicking idly about. They're mostly vestigial in David's room, thanks to the whole 'cursed motel' thing that cuts off Patrick's access to magic, but the fact that he still happily _chooses_ to be in here with David—loose and relaxed every time David steals a glance (this is a frequent occurrence) and offering entirely unnecessary commentary on some of David's bolder looks—well. In the most wonderful way, it can make it hard to focus. Hence how slow this process currently is.

"Do we think cream or slate silk pajamas would better fit the color scheme of the new bedroom?" David asks, eyeing both options critically.

"So _now_ you want my opinion," Patrick says, tone warm with amusement.

"I believe I asked, so, yes," David replies, airily. "Cream or slate, and you can't say either or both, there _is_ a correct answer."

"Bold of you to assume you'll be wearing anything, when we have a place all to ourselves," Patrick murmurs, and David's gaze flicks from the pajamas to him—the invitation pressed into the slow curve of his smile—and then to the door to the adjoining room, where there's every chance one or both of his parents could walk right through at any moment.

Russian roulette isn't the game he wants to play today. If the last few months have taught him anything—and they have taught him a _lot_ of things—it's at least some semblance of patience. And how the slow simmer of waiting for the right place, the right time, can be its own reward. "Hmm, I think I might actually have a black pair in here," David says, finally, returning to the task at hand—he shifts a couple boxes in the bottom of the closet, and then something distinctly unclothes-like falls off the top of one and _thumps_ to the ground in front of him. 

It's a book—entitled, in bold, glittery font, _From Spell to Check: The Ultimate Guide to Practical Magic in the Workplace._ David sits down on the floor by the closet, smoothing his hand across the cover, and opens it to the front page, the only one that isn't blank: _All you have to do is ask :)_ reads Patrick's handwriting.

"What've you got there?" Patrick murmurs, crouching down behind him, arms encircling his waist with his head hooked over his shoulder. He huffs out a laugh at his own handiwork, breath warm at David's neck. "Oh, that was fun. At the time, I thought you'd put it through a wall. I liked riling you up, just a little."

"Always nice to be reminded that my boyfriend is a man of consistency," David replies, earning another laugh warming his skin. A beat, and then, "Honestly, though? I actually didn't even open the book until right before we opened the store."

"Huh," Patrick says, thoughtfully. "What made you decide to read it then, after all that time? Looking for some last minute tips?"

"In a sense," David replies, passing one thumb gently across the little smiley face. He lets the moment stretch a little, and Patrick indulges him, breath soft and steady at his ear. "I mean, _before_ , you weren't sticking around, so—not like it would be any help after that." 

He clears his throat, briefly, and feels Patrick press a kiss to his shoulder, and then a few to his neck, for good measure, hugging around his hips. "Anyway," he continues, twisting his lips to stop the smile from slipping out, "as soon as I figured out I _wanted_ you to stay and that kind of information would have actually been useful, it turns out it was just a fun prank you'd decided to play. Which lead to me having to bribe Alexis to bribe a _child_ to get me a tooth so I could get your best friend into a room and make a deal with _her_ —"

Patrick is fully laughing again now, chin gently knocking at David's collarbone. "Gosh, David, I'm glad you made it through that very traumatic chapter of your life."

"Yes, well," David sniffs, and then undermines the act by setting the book aside and twisting around, dislodging Patrick for a moment until David can pull him into his lap, taking the chance on an empty room behind that adjoining door—at least for a little while longer. "I think I could write something far better than this." 

"Better than seven words and a smiley face?" Patrick replies, setting his arms loose and relaxed across David's shoulders. "I don't know, David, that's some of my finest work. Think it'll be hard to top."

"Oh, I think you'll be very easy to top," David murmurs, grinning. "And, as for the book, literally anything with eight or more words would make a superior sequel. Not so much practical magic in the _workplace_ , though, as—well, sometimes in the workplace," he amends. "But concerning a particular subject matter with which I now have extensive, hands-on experience." 

"Hmm," Patrick intones, mouth quirking up. He leans in, pressing a kiss to David's lips—soft, lingering, easy as breathing—and it feels like coming home. "What would you call it?"

**_Practical Magic Below the Waist:_ **

**_How to Spark Joy,_ **

**_or,_ **

**_Five Easy Steps to Master Interspecies Relations_ **

By David Rose

_"Marie Kondo wants what we have!"  
_ — Patrick Brewer, ***** fairy, boyfriend to David Rose and small business co-owner

 ***** (received compensation for providing this quote)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* **Step 1:** *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ **  
Learn to Love (in) the Great Outdoors**

_Months in the past (at least, in this reality):_

"What if you—" David says, and loses track of what he was going to say as Patrick nips at his neck, right below his ear. Except he really wants— "Could you—I'd like to—oh fuck, stop a second." Patrick does, barely, pulling back just enough that David can see the outline of his face, his eyes, his mouth. Fuck, David wants to kiss that mouth again, but first— "Can I see your wings?"

Patrick's mouth quirks. "Well, not in here, David."

They're in the back seat of the Lincoln, off a dirt road somewhere, practically in a _field_ , parking like teenagers because there is literally nowhere else to go in this ridiculous town. Two grown men—well, one grown man, and one grown fairy—do not actually fit in the back seat of a car, but David doesn't really care that one knee is jammed into the back of the driver's seat and his other foot is falling asleep because of the way Patrick's leaning on his leg, because Patrick's been kissing him for the better part of twenty minutes now and it's—good. It's really, really good. Patrick kisses David like he does everything else to David, thorough and teasing and sweet and turning David's world on its head just by existing. 

It's just that, since Patrick sealed his Rose Apothecary co-partner contract with a kiss after the store opening, they haven't been able to do much _more_ than kiss, and David is very... curious. About things. Fairy things. And also what his options are for making Patrick even half as crazy as Patrick makes David.

"Okay, come on," Patrick says, and then he's moving _away_ , that's not right, he's opening the door behind him and getting out of the car. "Come on," he says again, and now he's actually laughing at David, which David feels very disgruntled about even as he takes Patrick's outstretched hand and lets Patrick pull him from the car.

And then Patrick pushes him, hands on his hips, and David's hands come up to Patrick's chest as his back hits the car behind him and—okay, wow, yes, their bodies are definitely pressed together now. Patrick's lips are back on David's neck and David's head tips back instinctively, his eyes falling closed, the night air delightfully cool on the trail Patrick's wet mouth leaves on David's skin.

The night air.

"Um," David says. "Wait, are we actually doing this outside?" His voice is a little squeakier than he intended, but Patrick's fingers have snuck under his sweater and his thumbs have found the top of David's hipbones, and that's really very—David squeezes his eyes closed tighter and tries to remember to breathe. "Where literally anyone could walk by and see us?" He barely manages to hold back complaints about the potential dirt, bugs, maybe even _moths_ , oh god—best to save at least some mystery until Patrick is a little more used to him.

"Nobody's going to walk by, David," Patrick says, sounding very reasonable, considering David can feel how hard he is, pressed up against David's thigh. "No sidewalks, no traffic, no one around, except the—no, you know what, I don't think the cows are going to mind."

"Cows?" David yelps, and opens his eyes. There are no cows—only Patrick, laughing at him. David would object strongly, except Patrick's eyes are crinkled, and he's biting his lower lip where David's teeth need to be instead, and also his wings are out—freed, finally, from whatever pocket dimension Patrick magics them into when he wants to be more 'low-key', or, for more practical reasons, drive a car. They're breathtaking, juxtaposed against the dark line of the horizon behind them—delicate and elegantly tapered, a scintillating mix of semi-sparkling brilliant blues that puts Van Gogh's _Starry Night_ to shame.

"Oh," David now says, and reaches over Patrick's shoulder to touch the edge of one wing. He's as delicate as he can be, but Patrick flinches at the touch, and his wings seem to—glow? No, they're just sending off small poofs of dust in little clouds, like a water mister on a hot summer day. It's very dark out here in the field with no cows, but the wing dust still shimmers in the starlight.

"Is this okay?" David asks, holding still with just the one finger on Patrick's wing.

"Um," Patrick mumbles. "Yeah, it's actually—I've never—no one's ever, um. Deliberately." He lets out a shaky breath. "Touching wings, it's kind of taboo? For fairies, but—"

"Taboo?" David yelps, yanking his hand back. "Shit, sorry, I didn't mean to—"

But Patrick draws back enough that David can see his face and he looks wild-eyed, desperate, as crazy as David feels. "David, do you even know—" he says, and cuts himself off by kissing David hard, all hot breath and sharp teeth. "Everything you do," he says into David's mouth, and, "You make me," and, "Please," and David doesn't hear anything he says after that because there is no way in hell he'd ever not respond to Patrick Brewer saying _please_.

Patrick's hands are everywhere, and he's pressing David back against the car, and David clutches at Patrick's back and feels the muscles move under his hands as Patrick—fuck, Patrick's wings are beating a little, enough to lift him just a couple inches, to let him push into David just a little harder, to line up their cocks just—

David rips his mouth away from Patrick's because he has to _breathe_ , just for a second, or he's going to come in his goddamn pants and Neil Barrett does not deserve that. 

"Oh," he says involuntarily, because the dust is _everywhere_. He tilts his head back; it's like a shimmering haze around them, like they're inside a starfield, or a really good rave. It's never been like this before, when Patrick's had his wings out— _maybe this is what Rachel meant when she said the dust becomes 'activated',_ David thinks, wonderingly. And then quickly shuts off that line of thought because he does _not_ want to think about the context of that particular piece of info Patrick's fairy BFF provided him during their last conversation, and, in particular, how his _sister_ factored into it.

"Does it, um," he says, still staring up. "Does this always happen? When you're, um."

"Basically," Patrick says, and he sounds as amused by David as he always is, but also a little—embarrassed? "It's not intentional," he adds, mouth quirking ruefully, and oh, wow, that's actually very—

"Really," David says, and his voice comes out low and hoarse. He rolls his hips against Patrick, and sure enough another puff of glittery dust flies into the air as Patrick makes a small noise. David doesn't know which he finds sexier.

"Um," Patrick says, and clears his throat. "You've got—" and reaches up and swipes his thumb over David's cheekbone, his fingers sliding under David's ear to cradle the back of his skull. It's such a simple touch, entirely innocent compared to the way Patrick's thigh is slotting in between David's to press against his cock, but it makes David's mouth go dry. 

He licks his lips, and even as he registers the sweetness spreading over his tongue, Patrick whispers, "Fuck." 

David blinks at him—he doesn't think he's _ever_ heard Patrick say that before, and Patrick is staring at his lips as if hypnotized, and that's when David actually realizes what he's tasting.

So, of course, he licks his lips again.

"David," Patrick says, voice shaking, and his thumb moves to the corner of David's mouth.

David hums in response. "It tastes good," he says. "You taste good."

" _Fuck_ ," Patrick says again, with feeling. "Do you even know what you—what that does to me, when you—David, will you—can I—"

"Yes," David says, not quite sure what Patrick wants, but sure about the way Patrick's other hand is gripping David's hip so hard it hurts, sure about the way Patrick's eyes widen. "I will. Anything. You can."

Patrick takes a breath, then moves his thumb just a twitch, until it's resting on David's lower lip. He's breathing fast and staring at David's mouth as if the world might end if he looks away, and David opens his mouth a little more and lets his tongue slip out enough to touch the tip of Patrick's dust-covered thumb.

It's sweet. It's _so_ sweet. David licks again, a full swipe of his tongue, and Patrick's groan fills his ears as Patrick's taste covers his tongue. It's a little different than he remembers it tasting, that one accidental time he got fairy dust in his mouth when Patrick first revealed his wings at the store, in what feels like a lifetime ago rather than a handful of weeks. It's somehow richer than he remembers, more complex. The fact that Patrick tastes like this because of _him_ , because of the way Patrick feels about him—because, as he now knows, fairies wear their hearts on their wings, rather than their sleeves—only makes it more incredible. God, it's like—David thinks suddenly of a peach he had on Mykonos once, grilled and soaked in honey and mint syrup. The fairy dust doesn't taste like that at all, but David remembers closing his eyes against the sun, heavy and golden-low on the horizon, taking tiny bites so the peach would last longer, each bite occupying his entire attention as layer after layer of complexity revealed itself with each mouthful. It's like that, maybe. It fills David's mouth, coats his tongue, makes his mouth water until he has to swallow, and swallow again. 

"Fuck, David," Patrick groans, and either David opens his mouth or Patrick pushes his thumb in but one way or another Patrick's thumb is in his mouth. 

God, it feels good. David lets his tongue curl around Patrick's thumb, just to see what Patrick will do. Patrick's eyes fix on David's, wide and wondering, and David meets his gaze as steadily as he can and sucks, just a little, just enough to tell Patrick _yes_ and _I want it_ and _I want you_.

Patrick has sworn up and down he can't read David's mind, but something _must_ get through because he swallows visibly, then takes a quick breath and pushes his thumb further into David's mouth, pressing down hard against his tongue. David's eyes almost roll back in his head. Months of Patrick discussing business proposals around a lollipop or a Twizzler has made him more than a little orally fixated, and he gives up on any pretense of subtlety and moans, loud, as he sucks hard on Patrick's thumb.

It's odd that the noise David hears is so _soft_ , like a breeze through tall grass, or the hushed sound of sheets sliding over skin—there's a soft noise, and Patrick's eyes draw wide, and then the night sky flips straight into day, stars fractured and spiralling out into infinite, brilliant blue. Except, holy _shit_ , that's _not the sky_ —David snaps his eyes tight on instinct, hardly daring to inhale, and then everything around him goes very, very quiet.

"Um," Patrick says, so okay, David has not actually gone deaf. 

"I don't think," David says carefully, "That I should open my eyes." 

"No, you're kind of—uh, it's not settled yet, one sec, I'll just—" and even through his eyelids David can see the tell-tale sparkle of some sort of magic, and then his face stops feeling like the time he tried the hundred layer foundation challenge. "I couldn't get it all," Patrick says, and he sounds almost sheepish. "I, uh, wasn't expecting that."

Wait. "Was that—did you just _come_?" David blurts out, and opens his eyes. Patrick, no longer in the air, looks chagrined—he's ducked his head a little so he's looking at David from under his eyelashes, but his pupils are blown wide, and he seems really... satisfied. "But you're—" David rolls his hips against Patrick's, making Patrick's breath catch because yes, Patrick is still hard. A flicker of motion over Patrick's shoulders draws David's attention to his wings, which are no longer blue—instead, they're translucent and pale, barely visible in the low ambient light. 

"It's, um," Patrick says, biting his lip. "It's different, for fairies. It can be different," he amends. "I'm not going to get into the magical birds and the bees right this second? But essentially there's a fairy way, and a human way, and I get the pleasure of both." He huffs out a laugh. "An unexpected benefit of cross-dimensional coevolution, I guess. Which was, I'm sure, forefront on everyone's minds when the Treaty was drafted." 

"Oh my god," David says, about a million thoughts tripping all over each other in their haste to get to his mouth. "Wow, okay, we are definitely going to talk about this, in _detail_ , but—are your wings meant to look… like that?"

Patrick frowns, peering briefly over his shoulder, and then he's smiling at David again, a quick tug at the side of his mouth. "Oh, that's normal—the dust has to, uh, regenerate. I guess you'd call it a refractory period."

"So, all the dust coming off, that's your 'fairy way,'" David clarifies. "But, earlier, it was still—" The dust had started shedding in earnest well before this grand finale, as it were, and Patrick's smile deepens, as if he knows where David is going with this. "Oh my god, does that mean, this whole time…?"

"Mmhm," Patrick confirms, and then leans in, placing a kiss on David's neck, warm breath tickling at the skin below his ear. "It can be all at once, or gradual, or a little of both," he says, almost conversational, and very much at odds with the hot slide of his lips at David's jawline. "But it feels _so good_ , David, you made me feel so good, so—sweet, ugh," and then Patrick leans away for a long, terrible moment, making a face. David recalls, belatedly, Patrick's _I couldn't get all of it_ , and thinks, _oh, of course—the dust, it's too sweet for him._ The cruel irony of Patrick's distaste towards the sugary snacks he needs to constantly consume to replenish his magical energy, as David understands it, evidently extends to his own supply. Alanis Morissette eat your heart out.

"Well," David says, carefully taking his hands off of Patrick's shoulders. "I think that's my cue to go, um. Take a shower."

"Oh," Patrick says, blinking. "I mean, of course, if that's—are you sure? Did I do anything—"

"No, oh god no," David says hastily. "I realize now what that sounded like, but I just need to—" _Think a lot about this whole fairy reproductive biology lesson, and freak out just a little in private, and also not see you make that face after you lick me_ , David doesn't say, but gestures in a way that hopefully communicates basically that information except much more cool and collected. "I just need a minute, a break, it's not you, you've been _wonderful_ , I really—really like you. This," David amends, because there's sincere and then there's going too far. He casts about for some vaguely reasonable explanation of why he wants to leave. "It's just that, I think I saw a moth? Over there? It was very—fluttery, and it had legs, and it just makes it difficult for me, you know, to focus. Or want to expose any more skin than I currently am, so." He cringes even as he says it, but if it's a choice between two vaguely mortifying truths, between _I want you to like me so much that I have too many emotions to process before we have mutual orgasms_ and _I have a childish phobia of bugs_ , well, David will cling to the latter. 

At least David's absurd verbal stumblings have done some good, though, because even though Patrick still looks a little worried around the eyes, his mouth is quirking up in a smile. "Sure," Patrick says, and leans in to kiss David once more, soft and close-mouthed. "I'll drive you home."

The drive back into town is quiet and predictably awkward, as David tries to will his dick down while also completely unable to stop sneaking looks at Patrick. Even though Patrick seems to catch him at it every single time. Astonishingly, though, David's inability to be a functional human being seems to set Patrick at ease. There's something about the set of Patrick's shoulders that loosens every time David catches his eye, and he keeps humming snatches of songs. Once he reaches over and rubs David's knee. 

When they pull into the parking lot at the motel, Patrick leans over before David can get out of the car and pulls him into a kiss, one firm hand on the back of his neck. It's not a particularly demanding kiss, but neither is it shy—Patrick holds David at the perfect angle, his tongue dipping into David's mouth, his teeth catching briefly on David's lower lip as they part.

"Oh," David says. Patrick definitely didn't get all the dust off of David, earlier—had David sat there with dust on his face the whole car ride? He reaches out a finger to wipe off the streak at the corner of Patrick's mouth, but Patrick catches his hand and kisses his fingertip instead.

"Hm," Patrick says, and licks his lips deliberately. "I really am sweet on you, huh? As the saying goes." David gulps—okay, he can see why Patrick was into watching David doing that earlier. "It's not… terrible," Patrick continues, with just the touch of a smile. "I could get used to it."

Later, in the shower, David may or may not deliberately rub a shimmering streak along the length of his cock with one glitter-laden thumb, and feel his orgasm wrenched out of him, gasping, at the sight of the blue swirls washing down the drain. 

  
  


✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* **Step 2:** *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ **  
Work Out the Kinks Early**

The second of July dawns, bright and blue-skied, and David's entire family forgets his birthday. 

This is not a particularly surprising turn of events, given just… everything about his family, and it's not like he really had any other plans for the evening, aside from using it as an excuse to skip Alexis's high school graduation and get Patrick alone in some relatively quiet corner fucking _anywhere_ in this town he can source some free-range, organic, corn-fed _privacy,_ before the tension of having to be professional around him for an entire workday with the knowledge that Patrick can have _interspecies orgasms_ literally drives David into an early grave. 

Except, in a plot twist worthy of a critically panned yet ultimately commercially successful M. Night Shyamalan flick, _Patrick_ not only knows that it's his birthday, but actually made dinner plans for the two of them. Which, in itself, is one of the best gifts he's received in years (considering the very sad fact that he hasn't technically _received_ a gift in years), until Patrick magics a very nicely wrapped mystery item onto the table of the booth they're sharing at the Cafe Tropical. The receipt from Rose Apothecary's very first sale, nestled among pale blue tissue paper, is (1) beautifully framed (he is so proud of Patrick, but, more than that, he is so proud of _himself_ for the excellent aesthetic tutelage he has imparted), (2) deeply sentimental in a way that could bring David to tears (but he won't let it) and (3) has a keycard taped to the back, which can only mean _Patrick got a room—_ and judging by the look Patrick shoots him once he glances up, dark and laden with promise, he's right on the money. 

The soft, secret part of David’s mind slips him a quick slice of memory _—_ him not wanting to go all the way that night by the cow field, stammering about moths. _Patrick_ _listened,_ his central yearning gland whispers treacherously. _Patrick paid attention._ David quickly rebolts the sixteen locks on that particular door and focuses on the glorious fact that, god, keycard means hotel, not motel, _hotel with an H._ The heat that thrums through him at the thought of fluffy white bathrobes and a mint on each pillow, of _room service_ , of crisp, fresh sheets on a mattress that still has all of its springs, is second only to the fact that one of them is _finally_ going to get fucked into that mattress tonight. But it's a close call.

"By the powers vested in the signout sheet, I have your car for the night," Patrick is saying, impishly, as David's brain turns into the exit lane on his brief detour along the sexy fantasy highway and comes back to the cafe. "I asked Stevie to help pack your night bag, because apparently you and she have a deal where she gets complete access to your entire wardrobe, which—I mean, as a fairy, and one specializing in small business in particular, I would _love_ to hear how she got you to grant her that boon."

"Oh, she has her ways," David mutters, taking the bag Patrick hands him across the table and rifling briefly through its contents. "Okay, these are acceptable choices, so sexy hotel night is still a go."

"Glad to hear it," Patrick says, dryly. _He_ doesn't appear to have a bag for himself, because presumably he can pull anything he needs out of thin air with a flick of his wrist. "Stevie also said you'd probably want to hang onto this, for now, rather than having me flash it over," he adds, one step ahead of where David's line of thought was heading. "Felt very weird to actually carry something here from the motel, but I stuck it out."

David's hands tighten reflexively over the bag for a moment. As incredible and incredibly _useful_ Patrick's magic has proven to be, it's just—there's a _McQueen_ in here. "Stevie is, shockingly, once again correct," David replies, much as he's loath to admit it. "Don't ever tell her, she'll be insufferable about it." 

"Unfortunately, she's gonna figure it out eventually, because she just won five bucks," Patrick says, smiling ruefully as he waves Twyla over. 

In a movie _not_ penned by M. Night Shyamalan, but maybe by Gary Marshall or Nancy Meyers, sexy hotel night would smash-cut from there on a wave of 80's synth-pop. In reality, they stop fifteen minutes in at the local gas station to fill up, because it apparently slipped Alexis' mind while she was out doing 'something lunchy' with the Lincoln earlier that day. Patrick spends a long time inside, which isn't exactly unusual for him—everyone in the greater Elmdale area knows Patrick, so he's probably been dragged into conversation with the cashier about oil prices, or enthusiastically accosted by someone buying road snacks whose aunt has a chainsaw sculpture workshop he helped get established—but it does mean he misses out on most of the mozzarella sticks Twyla got them to-go, which end up becoming David's share (an absolutely fair trade for his time).

"We're actually super fortunate the hotel is in town," Patrick enthuses, once they're back on the road. "Or, at least, only a half-hour out. I couldn't believe my luck when I checked the schedule and saw we'd be able to book it on the second."

"And by this hotel being 'in town', you mean…" David prompts.

"I mean it moves around," Patrick clarifies. "Fairy establishments can't have permanent residence on human turf, so, it's how they get around the Treaty rules. It'll be, like, a week in one place, then it's on the other side of the world again."

"So, what, this place is like—a sexy _Howl's Moving Castle?_ " David says, without considering how those words should really _never_ be in a sentence together. "Wow, yep, I am never going to be invited to a tea ceremony with Hayao Miyazaki again."

"Whose moving castle are we referring to, here, again?" Patrick asks. "Because those are two names you just dropped, and I'm not super inclined to pick them up."

"Technically, someone else wrote the book it's adapted from," David explains, loftily. "It's a very beautiful story about this woman who makes hats and then is cursed by this witch to be old forever, and then she goes to work for this like, hot young wizard, like an Orlando-Legolas type—most of that's in the hair—there's a war, they fall in love, point is, the castle like, moves around physically, but there are also these doors in different cities you can use to get into it? So, like that."

"Typical human creative types," Patrick says darkly, tapping his fingers at the wheel. "Boy, if I had a nickel for every time Interflix greenlit a show appropriating ancient ageing curse culture. Honestly, very problematic, especially bringing _hats_ into the mix, I mean, wow."

"Wait, really?" David replies, instantly curious. "So you're saying there's actually a—okay, no, you're fucking with me."

"That I am," Patrick replies, dimpling at him. "Thought the Interflix thing might’ve clued you in sooner, seeing as you’re the one actually getting the money’s worth of my subscription. That castle thing isn't super far off, though. If I was going to draw comparisons to some human takes on magic, I would have said the Knight Bus, from _Harry Potter._ But not actually like, _moving_ while you're in it?" He pauses for a moment, _hmm_ ing. "No, you know what, yours is probably closer."

" _Harry Potter,_ " David says, with a sigh. "Of course you would—you know it pains me, physically, that your pop culture consumption is the equivalent of fine dining at a Dennys." He clutches at his chest for emphasis. "In particular, your _glaring_ and, frankly, nigh unforgivable disregard for the entire rom-com genre, many of which are available on Interflix, if you ever decide to dust off the profile I curated for you. The fact that you haven't even seen _Notting Hill_ —"

"You know I'm more of a music guy," Patrick says, grinning at the road ahead. "But, hey, there's a cinema in Elmdale, right? Take me out, sometime. Show me your world, as the song goes."

David sniffs. "So you've watched _that_ movie, then, at least."

Patrick looks at him, eyes wide in mock surprise. "Wait, that's from a _movie?_ "

"I literally—I just can't with this conversation, right now," David says, looking out the window to hide his smile—and then takes a moment to process that instead of the fields, general greenery and occasional farmhouses dotted here and there that have occupied his view throughout this drive, he's now looking out at a cement parking lot.

"Good, because we're here," Patrick is saying cheerfully, as he pulls into the driveway. 'Here' turns out to be a charming, if not particularly memorable, mid-range hotel—vaguely like the Umbrian cottage David dumped Alexis at the second time she'd gotten in too deep with the mafia, but, like, taller, and with presumably less of the Entourage cast loitering about—called The Lilac Auberge. Which, upon processing that particular moniker, he revises 'memorable'. 

"Patrick!" comes a warm voice from the reception area as they walk in. "So good to see you again. It's been too long." A burly Japanese man in his late fifties, judging by his long silvery hair tied neatly back in a ponytail, waves them over—the purple bowtie at his throat draws David's attention immediately, a bright pop of color against his mostly-black attire. The nametag pinned to his chest reads HORACE. "And you must be David," Horace says, reaching out to shake his hand. "It is a rare treat for us at the Auberge to host human guests, so do let me know if there's anything you need—Patrick has already negotiated a price with management, so please know that you will not incur any debt to me, or the hotel, should you wish to ask."

"Well, thank you," David replies, smiling politely, secretly _very_ glad he's not going to have to deal with the frankly terrifying fairy barter system and end up trading his soul for a corn chip, or something. "That is good to know." He casts around for a moment—Horace seems to be the only member of staff present in this modern-rustic styled—and, now that he's actually looking, very _tall_ —lobby. "Is there, ah—for my bag...?" David had left his birthday present in the Lincoln, on Patrick's somewhat unsettling advice that _no one's breaking into your car in this carpark and living to tell the tale_ , so his one piece of luggage should be no issue for the bellhop to—

"Oh! Of course," Horace exclaims. "Our storage facility in the Realm is quite secure, and easy access for—"

"No thank you," David says, a little too loudly. "I mean, on second thought, I'm fine, thank you very much." _Fairy hotel_ , _right,_ he thinks, clutching his bag tightly in case someone _else_ tries to send it careening through random dimensions, and then looks over to Patrick, whose lips are twitching _very_ suspiciously at the corners. 

"Of course," Horace allows, clearly too professional to allow a mere human to rattle him. "Is there anything else?" 

Patrick, smiling openly now, places a reassuring hand on David's arm, and says, "I think we'll just head up now—room four, right?"

"As always," Horace replies genially, gesturing to an archway to his left, inscribed elegantly above with Rooms 1-5. "Have a pleasant evening."

"I don't know what you were expecting from that request," Patrick murmurs, amused, as they walk hand-in-hand down the oddly bare and uncarpeted hallway. "But I can promise you that all of your fancy sweaters would've been completely fine. In all the time I've known him, Horace has only flashed my pajamas into the Mariana Trench once."

"Very funny," David replies, airily. "Given your clothing budget, I'm sure they would not be missed."

"Not tonight, at least," Patrick says, grinning, as they reach a solid-looking wooden door with an ornate '4' carved in curling vine motifs in the center. Patrick slides the keycard into the slot and then, as the green light ticks on and the latch buzzes open, he holds open the door for David, beckoning him inside with a flourish.

David's first impression of the room is less hotel room, and more sparsely decorated hotel gym. There's a bed in one corner—covered, for some reason, with plastic sheeting—and a small table in another, next to a sort of standing closet or cabinet, but most of the room is empty. The ceiling is very high and there's _bars_ on it, like some sort of gym focused to the point of obsession on pull-ups, and/or a kinky sex dungeon focused on _something else_. The bars are everywhere, at least twenty of them, affixed to the ceiling and walls in no discernible pattern David can see, but very sturdily anchored. 

"Can I come in?" Patrick says from behind him, and David realizes he's stopped in the middle of the doorway. 

"So this is… different," David says, stepping into the room. He turns around slowly. Yep, that's a lot of bars.

"What?" Patrick asks, and David turns to look at him. Patrick is either genuinely clueless or very, very good at trolling David. It's a toss-up.

"Um, the kinky sex dungeon decor?" David says slowly.

"Oh, the bars?" Patrick says, glancing up. "That's just—" He gestures, his fingers kind of fluttering up. "Traditionally you'd find a nice tree branch to hang on to, but, you know, modernization."

That's actually more kinky than David was expecting. "You mean flying," he says, after a beat. Just to check. "During sex. Flying sex."

"Yes?" Patrick replies, blinking. "I mean, if there's the option. If you're in the bed then you'd have to sleep in it afterwards. Kind of gross, honestly."

"Of course," David says faintly, and sits down at the table, depositing his bag on the floor next to him. There's a large bowl in front of him, full of brightly colored candy, and a pitcher of something neon—Powerade? He glumly unwraps a Starburst and pops it in his mouth. It tastes like wax and sexual confusion. Flying sex. _Flying sex._ Vulnerable squishy bits all exposed and up in the air, and a _lot_ of that air between them and a hard vinyl floor. This is fine, right? This is fine. This is a Tuesday, in Patrick's world. Perfectly normal. Why _wouldn't_ you have sex, while _flying?_

"Um," Patrick says. He's still standing near the door, shifting from foot to foot. "Unless you want to have sex in the bed, I guess? Because of course we can do that, if you want to. Honestly I just thought it was one of those porn things, you know, bad dialogue, everyone comes on cue, sex in a bed."

"Right, um," David says, carefully putting down his second candy. "Can we actually circle back to where you were watching porn? _Human_ porn? Because I, for one, find that extremely intriguing. Especially considering you managed to find time for _that_ and not _Notting Hill_."

"David," Patrick says, warm and amused, and walks over to stand in front of him. He takes David's hands and pulls him to his feet. "I want to do whatever works for you. I'm going to make it good for you. I promise."

"I believe you," David says, trying desperately to stop his mouth from twisting into a grin as his hands settle into their usual spot on Patrick's shoulders. "I just can't believe I'm about to have the best sex of my life in a room with fake wood vinyl flooring."

"Makes it a lot easier to clean up the activated dust," Patrick murmurs, as his hands slide over David's hips. "The best sex of your life?"

"I mean," David whispers, not really paying attention to what he's saying. Patrick's lips are very pink and very close. "Just a guess. Either that, or the last sex of my life. It's no parasailing with Anderson Cooper, but this ceiling is pretty high." 

"Now that _definitely_ sounds like a story I'd like to hear," Patrick says, his voice low. "But I've got you, David. Just you wait."

And then they're kissing, and David loses himself in Patrick's tongue and lips and teeth, in Patrick's fingers on the bare skin of his hips, fingernails on his back under his sweater, Patrick's hand sliding down over his ass and pulling him close. David thrusts mindlessly, seeking out that delicious friction, moaning into Patrick's mouth, and then gets his own hands around the back of Patrick's head to hold him still so that David can pull away.

"Naked," David gasps, not the most coherent thing he's ever said.

Patrick grunts and tries to lean into David's mouth again. David manages to turn his head because he has something to _say_ , okay, he will not be distracted. But that just means Patrick goes for his neck, that spot on the side of his jaw that Patrick kisses all the time except he's _going_ for it now, nipping and licking and sucking and David can't _think_ —

"Clothes!" he says. "Off, get them—off, fuck, Patrick, Patrick—"

"Right," Patrick says into his neck, then pulls back with one last lick that leaves David shivering, cool air on oversensitive skin rapidly depleting any coherency he has left. "Okay, just, uh, here—" and _just like that_ Patrick is completely _naked_ in his arms, what the fuck.

"That's a trick," David says, blinking. "What, uh, where did they go?"

"My storage unit?" Patrick says, leaning in as if he's going for David's neck again. "In the Realm, it's fine, let me just flash yours—" 

"Okay, but hold on," David says firmly, tugging on the short hair at the back of Patrick's neck. Patrick's mouth opens a little, his eyelids fluttering half-closed, and David makes a mental note to add to his ever-growing list of things that really do it for Patrick. Maybe one day he'll even write a book. _The Human Guide to Blowing a Fairy's Mind (Among Other Things)_ —he'll workshop the title.

David hauls his mind back on topic, which is that Patrick seems to be suggesting putting his clothes in a storage unit in _another dimension_. Did they learn nothing in the lobby earlier? "Is it even climate controlled?" he asks, pulling Patrick's head back again. He almost gets distracted by Patrick's kiss-swollen lips, his dark eyes, but this is important. "These pants are Balenciaga, you can't just—toss them in a corner somewhere!"

Patrick drops his head to David's shoulder and groans, then takes a step back and his arms are full of David's clothes, which are no longer on David's body, because David is suddenly, magically, naked. David does note, for the record, that they are at least folded correctly.

"Well, you can keep them in the closet," Patrick says, walking them over, "Depending on whether you trust the seal on those doors more than the, uh, humidity in my storage unit." 

"The seal on the doors?" David repeats, frowning slightly as he inspects them. 

"Let's just say I have a suspicion," Patrick says, dryly, "That you would not be enthusiastic about having sparkly blue as a permanent component of your personal color palette." _Right_ , David remembers, belatedly, _the dust thing. The_ activated _dust thing._ There's not a lot of it around at the moment, but, given what went down out at the field, there's a whole lot more to come—David can definitely see how that would _not_ be an ideal outcome for his Balenciaga pants. "I mean, it's probably fine?" Patrick continues. "I've just never actually used it myself. Always kinda wondered why it was _there,_ you know? Weird design choice. Oh, you might want to put your night bag in there as well."

"Right," David decides, and sets his clothes on the higher shelf. Patrick grabs his bag from under the table where David left it, giving David a truly inspiring view of his naked ass. David has to force himself to focus as Patrick hands him the bag, and David places it carefully inside the cabinet, making sure the doors are closed nice and tight. "Now," he says, stepping closer to Patrick, who immediately slides his hands over David's hips, "Where were we?"

"Best sex of your life, I believe it was," Patrick replies, smirking, as David slides his hands up Patrick's back. "Depending on—ah, that feels, David—" 

"Yeah?" David says, and rubs down Patrick's back, right where Patrick's wings usually appear—where David _hopes_ they'll appear, any time now—those curious points of liminal-physical space. The fact that Patrick can just phase them in and out of his body, _through_ his clothes, without a stitch of damage to every one of his blue-hued button-downs, never ceases to fascinate him; how the fabric of reality apparently has a tighter stitch than mid-range merino.

"Fuck—yes—" Patrick gasps, and there's Patrick's wings, unfurling out into this dimension right on cue—David quickly repositioning his hands to avoid touching them, he’s got to get more practice at that—and, yep, there's going to be a lot of 'sparkly blue' added to the color palette of this room. Every waft of Patrick's wings is sending another burst of dust into the air, with the particular shimmer that David has learned means _activated_ , means Patrick is turned on as hell. 

And David is in no rush, god, he could live for a month in the slow slide of Patrick's tongue against his, but— "Condom?" David says, against Patrick's lips. He may never have been a boy scout, but there are some areas where he definitely knows the value of being prepared. He'd spotted several condoms stuffed into his overnight bag, including one extra small, thank you _so much_ Stevie, but Patrick seems like the kind of guy who might have a favorite brand.

Except Patrick freezes, and pulls away from the kiss, and he only meets David's eyes for a second before he's looking away at the floor. "Okay, um, the thing is," Patrick says, and holds out his hand, where a disturbingly large brown paper bag appears in a shower of sparkles. "I really wanted to be prepared tonight, I just wanted to make it good, but I didn't—I haven't—the thing is, when we were at the gas station earlier? I saw them on the shelves, and I realized that I hadn't." Patrick takes a deep breath, a little flushed. "So, I had to—well, I didn't know what to get, so I just got one of everything, and—well, here." He turns the bag over on the bed and gives it a shake.

"Wow," David says, after a second. "You really did get one of everything."

"I just, I didn't know," Patrick continues, his hands hovering over one box, then another. David thinks he's never seen Patrick so twitchy. "No, I didn't _think_ , I never—they don't use them much in human porn, which, they should, right? If it's meant to be—but with fairies, we don't, uh, STDs aren't really a thing we have to deal with, so I've never, actually, um—for myself, you know, and they had so many different sizes, and textures, and I just didn't know which you'd—"

"Hey," David says, and snags Patrick's hand out of the air. Patrick stills, but doesn't look at him. "Hey," David repeats, gentler. "Thanks. Thanks for getting those." It's actually kind of reassuring to see that Patrick's nervous, too—David feels so tender, suddenly, like he just wants to wrap Patrick up in a big soft blanket and keep him warm and safe. Okay, also fuck him until he sees stars, but—he wants Patrick to feel safe, and taken care of. Patrick is trying, here, to make things work for David—David is going to make things work for Patrick. Even if it involves flying. 

Patrick's expression flips into such heady relief that it could be a physical thing, his wings flaring in a bright flash of sapphire, and pulls him into a kiss—all teeth and tongue, demanding and greedy, and David doesn't hesitate to open up to him. Patrick's mouth tastes sweet already, the dust clinging to every surface, but Patrick doesn't shy away from it—sweeping his tongue over David's until David moans and tries to open his mouth further, tries to touch more, get more of him.

They kiss until David feels like he's floating, dizzy and a little overwhelmed with how much of Patrick he can touch. And wait, he actually _is_ floating, Patrick's hands sliding under his ass to hike one leg up over Patrick's hip, then the other, Patrick's thighs coming up under him and then he's tilting back, Patrick's hands sliding up the curve of his back and there's nothing holding him up, he's falling, he's—

"Woah, David," Patrick says, and their feet are on the floor again. Okay, so, he wasn't actually falling, that was all in his head, but it _felt_ so—David stumbles back and sits heavily on the bed, where the plastic sheeting clings disgustingly to his clammy skin. Patrick is reaching out to him, his face crumpled in concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," David says, then immediately, "No. No, actually. I just need to sit here a minute, it's just, I'm, heights—"

"Breathe, David," Patrick says, and sits next to him. His thigh is warm against David's, and his arm circles David's lower back. 

David heaves a breath, then another. "Sorry," he says, on reflex more than anything.

"It's fine," Patrick says immediately, and David can almost believe him. "Just breathe, it's fine. Breathe with me."

David does, and Patrick breathes too. Patrick has tucked his wings back in, and David spares a brief thought of regret at their absence. But by the time the literal magic dust settles, David is ready to talk.

"So I think," David says, "I might not be up for flying sex."

"I get that," Patrick replies. "It's, uh. I mean, the whole interspecies thing isn't everyone's cup of tea."  
  
"Oh my god, no," David says, startled enough to look up at Patrick. "I mean yes, but no, I like the— _this_ is not the problem," he says, waving at the bars and the vinyl flooring and the candy on the table, all coated in a light blueish sheen. He guesses Patrick must have been pretty excited, before David wrecked everything. "It was a little—surprising, maybe? But not in a bad way. I like this," he says, just to be clear, and is rewarded by a uniquely Patrick smile, the corners of Patrick's mouth going down as the corners of his eyes go up.

"So," Patrick says, carefully, "If it's not the fairy thing, then..."

"I just," David says. He has to look down. He isn't hard anymore, but Patrick's hands are on his own knees, one thumb rubbing back and forth, so—David takes a deep breath and covers Patrick's hand with his own, feeling Patrick take a matching breath, and lets it settle him, a little. "I'm not—I've been with a lot of people. Like, a lot, a lot. So maybe I've never done it with a fairy, but trying new things isn't a problem for me—except, I do actually have a thing with heights? The, ah, 'parasailing with Anderson Cooper' experience I mentioned before wasn't exactly—I feel like it's probably a lot sexier in your head— _anyway_. What I haven't done, what I've never done—" He takes another deep breath. Patrick's hand twists under his and David almost pulls away, but Patrick just turns his hand over and winds their fingers together. It makes David's heart thud, not at all in a bad way, and suddenly it's easy to say after all. "I've never done any of this with anyone I... trusted. And it's not that I don't trust you, I don't actually think you'll let me fall, it's just that it's not something that I've—that I've ever—it's just new. For me. And I'm trying."

"David," Patrick breathes, and David has to look up at him. But Patrick doesn't say anything else, just sits there _smiling_ at him.

"What," David says, but Patrick just shakes his head.

"I, uh," he says, and clears his throat. "I maybe should have mentioned this earlier, but, if it isn't exceedingly obvious by now, I haven't actually had sex with a human before?"  
  
"I—had guessed that," David replies. It hadn't been hard to guess; Patrick's usually a confident, take-charge kind of guy, and between the condoms and the porn reference (which they _really_ should circle back to, because what a mental image) and the general twitchiness, it's pretty clear that David isn't the only one trying something new tonight.

"Yeah," Patrick says. "I should have told you before. I just didn't think it would be that different—I mean I _don't_ think it will be different, it's not that different, I just didn't think of—anyway." He takes a breath. "We don't have to do anything, you know, we could just—I really like kissing you, we could just do that."

"Oh my god, no," David protests, aghast, his hands flying up. "No, what, you got me a _hotel room_ , I'm not going to pass that up, we are going to have sex! Unless you don't want to," he adds belatedly, because of course he'd—but Patrick is laughing at him, actually giggling out loud, so that's probably okay. 

"Believe me, I want to," Patrick says, his voice dropping low, and he leans in to kiss David, his teeth catching David's lip just for a second. David is suddenly and shockingly aware that they are both very naked, and Patrick's dick is right there, and he could just reach out and— "But maybe we should go a little slower."

"Slower, right," David says, moving his hand back to his own lap. "Yes, definitely, we can definitely go slower."

Patrick grins as if he knows exactly what David's thinking, and leans in to kiss him again, achingly slow and sweet, because Patrick is a horrible tease. "Or not," he says, low and husky. "Whatever speed you want."

"Um. Okay," David says, but he can't stop himself from smiling, or from leaning in to kiss Patrick again. "We do have this bed."

"Right," Patrick says, and clears his throat. "The bed. We can definitely have sex on the bed."

"Okay, seriously though," David says, pulling back. "What do you have against beds?" _Although_ , he supposes, _if you're capable of having magic flying glitter orgasms while hanging on to kinky dungeon bars, beds would seem slightly jejune._

"Nothing!" Patrick says hastily. "It's just a little—don't you get, like, sticky? Afterwards?"

Patrick is flushing now, just at the tips of his ears, and, for the second time tonight, David is suddenly overwhelmed by tenderness. Patrick is trying something new, for David, he's trying very hard and it's maybe one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for him. So he gives in to a grossly romantic urge and pulls Patrick's hand, still twined with his, up to his mouth and kisses his fingers. "I think I can find a way to keep things clean enough for you," he murmurs, and nips at Patrick's fingertips in case he wasn't clear enough. Patrick grins at him, blindingly happy, and pulls him into a kiss.

It starts out soft and gentle, and then Patrick's hand lands on David's thigh and David's mouth opens, just a little, completely involuntarily, and then it gets very hot and heavy, very fast. The evil plastic bedcover migrates floor-ward trailing a shower of condom boxes, and David pushes Patrick down on the blanket and crawls on top of him. Since Patrick's wings are gone there's nothing in the way, and the bedspread is soft and clean and not covered in fairy dust. Very quickly Patrick is thrusting up against him, seemingly happy to rub off just like that, as if there's no better use of a private, spacious hotel room.

David pushes himself up, smiling at Patrick's whine and grabby hands. Patrick looks fucking edible underneath him: lips wet and red, cheeks flushed, short hair going every which way. "Hey," he says softly. "Let me take care of you. We can—I want to try out the human way, okay? I'm gonna keep you nice and clean."

"Oh god," Patrick says, breathlessly, as David dips down to kiss and lick at his collarbone.

He takes his time, only a little because his fingers are trembling. Patrick's chest is rising and falling under his hands, warm and solid, and his skin makes David's mouth water. And, honestly, why not? He has no reason to hold himself back. He leans forward to put his mouth on Patrick's collarbone, then sucks, lets his teeth dig in, and Patrick's stifled _fuck_ above him only makes David suck harder. He pulls back, admiring the very nice mark where his mouth had just been—Patrick's pale skin reddens up beautifully, and David can't help but think of all the other ways he can mark Patrick up, with his mouth and teeth and fingernails. 

"I want to bite you everywhere," David blurts, staring.

Patrick pushes himself up onto one elbow and wraps his hand around the back of David's head. "Yes, do it, you can, I want—" he says, even as he's pulling David into another kiss, and then it's just a mess of pushing and yanking and rolling around. Patrick is gorgeously responsive underneath him, twitching and crying out as David, true to his word, takes a teeth-first world tour: the soft curve of his belly, the sensitive skin beneath one hipbone, a hot trail tracing up his ribcage, a perfect pink nipple rolled against David's tongue. Once Patrick even yanks David's hair accidentally, and gasps, "Sorry, sorry," until David bites harder and he yanks at David's hair again.

"I like it," David says, pulling back. "In case you couldn't tell. I like it when you pull my hair."

"Oh," Patrick breathes.

"In fact," David says, and pulls out his best dangerous smirk. "You could keep doing that. While I suck you."

Patrick's fingers clench in his hair again, and David's eyes fall halfway closed, because he really wasn't kidding about liking it.

"Are you sure?" Patrick asks.

"Very," David says, and has to clear his throat. "Let me show you how humans keep things clean." He moves down, Patrick's fingers loosening to let him go, and yes, there's Patrick's cock. It's gorgeous, thick and flushed, and David's mouth is watering. He wants nothing more than to take Patrick in his mouth, and he _can_ , there's nothing stopping him from leaning down, giving the head of Patrick's cock a few swift licks, just to hear how Patrick's breath catches, and then he opens his mouth— 

And then Patrick says, "Ouch ouch ouch _fuck_ ouch."

David pulls back immediately, confused, because he'd barely even—but it's immediately apparent what the problem is.

Patrick is squirming away from David, so that he can sit up, so that he can give his wings more space. Because his wings have popped out, even though he was on his back on the bed. David winces sympathetically at the way they're obviously crumpled up. Patrick had told him, once, that keeping his wings tucked away requires active focus, so it figures that David's world-renowned blowjob skills could pose a problem there. _Note to self,_ David thinks, another line item for his mental fairy sexcyclopedia, _Patrick needs to be on top._

"Sorry, sorry," Patrick says, making a pained face as he shakes them out, "I didn't mean to—fuck, I can't _think_ , just, give me a second and I can try and get them back in—"

"Don't," David says, immediately. "I mean—if you want to, of course you should—but um. If you—as far as I'm concerned—"

"What—David," Patrick says, and grabs his wrist. David looks up at him, surprised into stillness, and Patrick looks so... so _warm_. He's looking at David with a lot of... a lot of _feelings_ in his eyes, which is kind of terrifying and kind of amazing, and probably not conducive to immediately having extremely hot sex, but David doesn't want it to stop anyway. "I thought you didn't like that."

"What?" David says, shocked. He likes Patrick's wings just fine. He likes Patrick's wings a _lot_. There's honestly a non-zero chance that he might be developing a fetish for them. He wracks his brain for anything he might have said, anything he did that Patrick could have taken to mean—

"I just meant," Patrick says softly, his thumb smoothing over David's pulse point. "We were just going to have human sex. That's all."

Oh. Right. "Well," David says carefully. "It turns out I want a little fairy in my sex after all."

There's silence for just long enough for David to realize what he just said—then Patrick bursts into laughter, and David can't help but join him.

"Oh my god," David sputters. "I just meant—"

"Little, huh?" Patrick says, still laughing. "I'll show you a little fairy in your sex." He's already reeling David in for another kiss with a hand on the back of his neck, even though neither of them can stop giggling. It's awkward, David bracing himself on one arm, one of Patrick's legs halfway off the bed so David can fit between them, and David wants to stay right here forever.

Although really, he can probably do better. "Okay, I was in the middle of something there," David says, pulling away. "I can make this work, I just need to—" He eyes Patrick critically. "Okay. Okay. You just—sit there."

"Okay, David," Patrick replies, clearly humoring him. 

David allows himself one slow smirk, not missing the way Patrick's eyes widen in response. Patrick may have had fancy flying sex with tree branches or whatever, but he hasn't yet had a David Rose Blowjob (patent pending). So, without further ado, he pushes Patrick's thighs a little wider, slides down the bed a little farther, ducks his head and takes Patrick's cock in his mouth.

"Fuck," Patrick says fervently, his hand tightening on the back of David's neck. "Oh _fuck_ , David, your _mouth_ is—"

David hums in acknowledgment, pulling another curse out of Patrick. His mouth certainly _is_. It doesn't hurt that Patrick's cock is a fucking mouthful, stretching David's jaw in the best way, thick and soft and heavy on the back of his tongue. He pulls back enough to swirl his tongue around the head, then makes eye contact with Patrick, reaches back, and pulls Patrick's hand up into his hair.

"Fuck," Patrick swears softly. He is a vision—his wings are beating softly, apparently helping to keep him upright off the bed. They're sending glittery dust in all directions, so thick David can smell it, like he's going down on Patrick in the middle of a rose garden instead of a mid-range hotel room with a dozen ceiling bars and no TV. He spares a single thought for the cleanliness of the sheets, but, fuck it—there are far more important things to think about right now. Such as the way Patrick's fingers are tightening in his hair, hesitant at first, and then with purpose. It's so good that David feels his eyes close halfway, and he has to take a deep breath through his nose to keep himself steady.

He wonders hazily whether the activated dust is some sort of aphrodisiac, or whether it's simply becoming a Pavlovian response for him. Either way, his mouth is watering as he takes Patrick's cock deep again. He wiggles his way down the bed so he can reach Patrick's cock without quite so much of a crick in his neck, the skid of his own cock against the bedspread and Patrick's leg so good he has to moan. Patrick's fingers tighten in his hair in response, and David sucks harder in response to _that_ , and it's all so good David loses track of everything but sensation, overwhelmed with touch, sound, taste, smell. He's almost surprised when Patrick garbles out a warning, followed by an immediate flood of Patrick's come over his tongue. He swallows greedily, letting his tongue work against Patrick until Patrick twitches away, oversensitive.

"I told you I'd keep you clean," he says, sitting up. His voice sounds _wrecked_ , his throat feels like he's been screaming for hours, and Patrick is looking at him as if he'd summoned choirs of angels. He feels great.

"Fuck," Patrick chokes, "Come _here_ ," and he slides both his hands into David's hair to pull him into a kiss, flip him over on the bed and attack David's neck and chest and belly. Except, oh, he's moving downward very purposefully, and David only realizes just how purposeful when Patrick's mouth is already on his cock.

Patrick has _definitely_ done this part of human sex before. He doesn't tease, just angles David's cock up with his hand around the base, and David's whole world is heat, suction, oh god it's so motherfucking goddamn _good_. David vaguely thinks that he's babbling, he can't tell what he's saying and he doesn't care, but it's clearly working for Patrick because he fucking _moans_ around David's cock and takes it even _deeper_ , god, his mouth is actual fucking magic. 

David squeezes his eyes shut to try and regain some semblance of control, except that really doesn't help because now David doesn't have anything to distract himself from the feeling of Patrick sucking hard at his cock, besides the _noise_ of Patrick's lips sliding down his cock. He groans and opens his eyes again, tries to focus on anything, literally anything that will keep him from coming right this second.

And of course, the first thing he sees are Patrick's wings. Patrick's glorious, sparkling, fantastical wings, wafting out sheet after sheet of literal magic until it covers the room, covers the bed, covers David and it tastes like—it tastes like—

David comes hard in Patrick's magical fucking mouth, and Patrick takes it all, Patrick holds his hips and sucks him harder and it is the best sex of David's life, no parasailing needed. Too soon, David is reduced to oversensitive whimpers and has to pull Patrick's head away, only vaguely registering Patrick clambering up the bed and collapsing on the pillow next to him. 

Eventually, minutes or hours later, he's able to blink his eyes open. The dust around them has started to settle in earnest, and the sheets are completely ruined. David feels a little bad—after his blithe promises to Patrick, looks like they'll be sleeping in a bit of a sticky mess after all—but mostly he just feels smug and satisfied. The whole world feels distant, fuzzy, and it can damn well wait. Patrick's wings are translucent, like they were after that one time in the cow field, but without the fireworks display to accompany it—so it had been _gradual, or a little bit of both_ , as fairy orgasm mechanics go—but, either way, Patrick had definitely, obviously enjoyed himself. And they hadn't even needed the condoms that Patrick made such a point of obtaining. David's eyes slip closed again, his mind wandering hazily into questions of fairy biology. No STDs, right, and reproduction would be by— 

"Um," David says, his eyes popping open. "It's not a... problem, right, to mix activated dust and come?"

Patrick says nothing, and David turns to stare at him, his brows drawing tighter with every second Patrick stays silent—that was a serious question, okay, is Patrick honestly fucking with him about important interspecies biology stuff? Is there _actually_ something Patrick's not telling him?

Then Patrick cups his cheek, gentle, and, with an expression on his face that can only be described as beatific, says, "Congratulations, David. We're having a baby."

 _"What,"_ David hisses, because, they can't—physically, it's not—but this is magic, maybe it doesn't play by human anatomy, and then his panicked brain helpfully brings up the first and last time he bore witness to the miracle of fantasy creature interspecies reproduction: _The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn, Part I_. Is Patrick going to have to perform some kind of emergency surgery with his decidedly unvampiric teeth to free an unholy spawn from David's body? Will David have to do it for _Patrick_? Is his life really going to end up like some story written by a repressed Mormon with a very shaky grasp of biology—

"David," Patrick says, with a shit-eating grin, "I was kidding." 

"You're a— _jerk_ ," David says, unable to come up with an appropriately deadly insult because of the way Patrick's fingers are stealing over the curve of his hip. 

Patrick doesn't deny it—if anything, he seems quite pleased with himself. "What I would give to know what kind of journey you went on just now," he murmurs.

"Oh, it was nowhere good," David says darkly. 

"We actually could, if you were a fairy," Patrick notes. "And we found a nice tree. Not particularly advisable to attempt it on Earth, though. You guys have a bad habit of chopping all of yours down." 

"Okay, but we're not, though," David says, just to be sure.

"No, David," Patrick affirms, so fond that David can feel himself start to smile before Patrick even gets the words out. "We're definitely not."

Eventually they manage to clean up, sort of. Patrick makes his way through half the candy bowl, soldiering bravely through every too-sweet bite in exchange for the sugar-powered recharge of his magical batteries. He then magics away most of the glitter and stickiness, and David shoves the top bedsheet on to the floor. The bottom sheet, while somewhat cleaner, still isn't exactly glitter-free—so, yes, Patrick definitely had a point about the stickiness of post-sex beds. But anything more elaborate will have to be sufficient until everyone's legs work again. 

Patrick lies on his side, facing David, his eyes almost unbearably soft. There's still a streak of blue on his cheekbone, which David is definitely going to wipe away. Any second now. No matter how adorable it is. As David shifts closer, though, something digs into his ear. He frowns, lifting his head just enough to get his hand underneath and fish out the culprit. It seems like Patrick may have inadvertently brought some leftover candy into bed. David squints at the small plastic package between his fingers. _Mentos_ , it reads, in bold blue font.

A mint, if you will, on his pillow. 

David starts to laugh, breathlessly, huffing into his mid-range cotton pillowcase. "What's so funny?" Patrick asks, but there's no bite to it—when David looks over, his face is open, and curious. 

"Oh, it's nothing," David replies, waving him off. "Mint on the pillow, it's just, in hotels—it's a human thing."

"Well, I'm glad that you're human," Patrick says, softly, after a moment. He smiles. "I like that, for us, we get to learn from each other, you know? And that figuring all this out can be—not difficult, necessarily, but, different. Even though it can get awkward, and, uh, scary, which—I really am sorry about that. Parasailing with Anderson Cooper _does_ sound very sexy, in my head, but I'm guessing it really wasn't." 

David echoes his smile, cheek stretching against the pillow. "It's fine. I'll tell my therapist to invoice you."

"Aw, you say the sweetest things," Patrick murmurs. "Seriously, though. We both get the chance to start something new. Explore possibilities neither of us have ever imagined. And I'm really happy I get to do it with you."

 _I've always known who I am, and what I want_ , Patrick had told him, once. _Humans can spend their whole lives figuring that out, and I like that—getting to have the journey, you know?_ And David does like that concept, now that he thinks about it—of sexy pioneers in uncharted lands, looking out upon miles upon miles of unmapped territory. But, now that he follows that thought down, lets the metaphorical Mayflower take root at Plymouth Rock and begin to bloom, it's more that—David has been with a thousand people, but never someone quite so determined to make sure David feels like his feet are on solid ground. Someone who makes David not quite so afraid to take that step off a ledge, close his eyes and fall, make the jump—because maybe, this time, someone will be there to catch him.

"Well," David says, and clears his throat. "To new things, then."

Patrick smiles, soft. "Happy birthday, David."

  
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* **Step 3:** *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ **  
Think TREAT: Theory, REsearch, plan of Action, Trust**

Heading back to Schitt's Creek the next day, David nearly runs himself off the road when Patrick, ostensibly meant to be 'taking care of the store' (since there was no way they were both going to make it back in time for opening), flashes into the passenger seat.

"Oh my fucking _god_ ," David yelps.

"Whew, moving vehicle math," Patrick says cheerfully, the steering wheel sparkling as he course-corrects David back over the centerline. "Good thing you keep it at ten-and-two, David—Find My Friends is a pretty rough line of sight to go by. Sorry to drop in like this, but I didn't know if you were going to make any pit stops on the way, and I thought you should get briefed on the situation before you got into town."

"You nearly—you couldn't have just _called?_ " David hisses, trying to bring his pulse from 'imminent cardiac arrest' back to 'generalized anxiety baseline'.

"Over a quarter of all car accidents in Canada are caused by mobile phone use, even hands-free," Patrick informs him. David shoots him a look that could kill lesser men, and he wilts a little under it. "No, you know what? I see your point. I clearly didn't think this through, that's on me, it's been, ah, quite the morning. I'll try to warn you, next time. So, as it turns out, one of the patrons at the motel died last night—"

"Wait, someone was _murdered_ at the motel?" David asks. "Huh. Actually, I guess I'm not really _that_ surprised? More, like, surprised it took this long. I mean, the place is literally cursed, so, it's way overdue. Like the whole Yellowstone thing, but a ragtag collective of men in hockey masks wielding rusty chainsaws." He taps his fingers against the wheel. "Anyway, so we're moving, then? Just tell Siri where I need to go. I'm assuming my family will make it over at some point, if they don't get themselves murdered too."

" _Died_ ," Patrick corrects, amused. "An old man died in his sleep _,_ presumably not under suspicious circumstances, so everything is fine. Well, not for _him,_ " he amends. "But everyone _else_ is fine, last I checked—though, I did have to talk your mother off a ledge when she barged into the store about fifteen minutes ago."

"Oh, god, please tell me _Mom_ isn't somehow involved," David groans.

"Thankfully, again, no," Patrick replies. "Anyway, I need to get back, we're really on a moisturizer streak today, so here's the rest of the news I acquired from Mrs. Rose: since the motel is booked out tonight and the coroner can't get there in time for check-in, Stevie and your dad apparently need you and Alexis to move out so they can free up your room."

" _Seriously?_ " David asks. "You mean they want me to—no. Absolutely _not._ Why can't they just, I don't know, change the sheets, and then _Weekend at Bernie's_ this guy—may his memory be a blessing—into Stevie's car for the day, because that thing has definitely seen worse."

"You know, I'm not sure if I should be more disturbed by _this_ particular piece of information upsetting you more than potential murder—and really, just, every part of what you just said—or the fact that I somehow find it very endearing," Patrick replies, wry. "But, hey, the universe unfolds as it should." He leans over to give David a quick peck on the cheek. "See you in an hour. Or, however long it takes you to pack up your stuff."

David considers the logistics of 'packing up his stuff', and then considers the very real possibility that he might not even _make it_ into the store today, but Patrick is long gone before he can vocalize that particular concern, so... he'll probably just text him later. Human style.

Later turns out to be about five minutes into trying to prioritize which pieces are in most desperate need of the few precious garment bags he was able to source on such short notice. **_Why couldn't this have happened YESTERDAY_** _,_ David complains to Patrick through the medium of iMessage. **_Like where am I even meant to GO now_** _._

 ** _Worst comes to worst, you could sleep in the back room_** , Patrick replies, after a minute or so. **_Couch is p comfy. Did the job when I was coma'd out on allergy drugs._**

 ** _Okay but you are shorter than me_** , David points out.

Patrick's response comes so quickly, David doesn't even see the typing dots appear on his screen. **_Not where it counts ;)_** Which, as David thinks back fondly, warmth blooming pleasantly in his belly, isn't _technically_ true, but—

"Oh my god, David, can you stop sexting for _one minute_ and help me, here," Alexis says, exasperated, emerging into view within the bathroom with a teetering tower of various cases filled with makeup products and their detritus. 

"Okay, first, ew," David replies. "And, second, you are a strong, independent woman, and, as a feminist, I refuse to perpetuate patriarchal gender roles and rob you of your agency."

"Ugh, don't be a _dick_ , David, just—" and then she blindly hip-checks the towel rail on the way out—which, as par for the course in this place, comes clean off the wall. " _David!"_ she yelps, as though this is somehow _his_ fault, barely managing not to overbalance and send all that makeup down to join the fallen rail. "Okay, this is—I literally can't," she says, dumping the makeup cases on her bed and leaving the towel rail where it fell. "I'm going to the vet office, so like, can you let me know if someone else dies, or cancels a booking, or whatever, so we can get our room back."

David gives her some vague reply, not really paying attention, because his eyes have honed in on the towel rail for some reason, glinting beguilingly in the fluorescent bathroom light. Sliding off his bed, he walks over and picks it up. Metal with a chrome finish, or whatever, and—though it is on the thin side—seems relatively sturdy. Looks like the screws were just loose—it would be an easy fix just to get it back on the wall, but. _Huh,_ David thinks, turning it over in his hands. That itch in his brain resolves itself into a thought, a connection he's making—this towel rail reminds him of the bars affixed to the ceiling at the Lilac Auberge. _Traditionally you'd find a nice tree branch to hang on to, but, you know, modernization._

But aerial sex is crazy, right? Crazy. Totally separate to David's whole thing with heights, just, _objectively,_ the amount of things that could go wrong here, most of which relate to (a) falling and then subcategorized by (b) how high _._ There's no reason for him to stare at this bar, _like a crazy person_ , and feel the same heat from before rising at the back of his neck—Patrick, unrestrained by gravity, wings humming in the air, gloriously flushed, mouth parting in a—no. David should just—call Stevie in to come and fix it, and keep packing up his clothes, and forget about the whole idea. He _should_ do that, but his hands—as though they're taking instructions from an entirely different brain—move to hide it under his bed instead, like it's the secret stack of porno mags he had back in the 90's and not the _towel rail_ from his _bathroom_. But he also makes no move to retrieve it, so.

David continues to have thoughts about that towel rail—staring at the ceiling, as he and Alexis reluctantly bunk down in their parents' room for the night, and then the next day, when they move back into their own room and he sneaks a quick peek under his bed to make sure the temporary tenant didn't run off with it. He thinks about it in the days thereafter, as he stares at Patrick's ass across the store like he's a heat-crazed desert wanderer espying an oasis, only to be thwarted as that ripple in the air resolves into another set of dunes—or, in this case, a steady stream of customers. 

_This is good,_ he has to remind himself, constantly, after another excellent makeout session is cut tragically short, _this is good, business is booming, the fact that you can't fuck your boyf—your fairy business partner you are dating because people can't stop giving you money is a good thing_. So David goes back to the motel, takes one or seven showers—literally the only place he can find any vestige of privacy—and spends some quality time with his thoughts. He thinks, and he thinks, and he thinks, until he feels like his _brain_ is getting chafed. Whichever brain his body is paying attention to, at this point.

His _very_ expensive New York therapist (well, the sixth one) had once tried to get him into exposure therapy to deal with his fear of heights. _Have a nice dinner out at the View, as a start,_ she'd said. _Doesn't have to be with a partner._ _Your best friend, your sister_ — _someone you trust._ And it's not something he's ever given one iota of consideration to, until now—until Patrick. Until, well, the Shower Sessions, and all the ways he's started picturing how flying sex with Patrick would even _work_ —just, academically, of course. With frequent scholastic input from his right hand. 

Still— _put together a strategy before you run right into the fire,_ the Patrick-voice in David's head reminds him. _Market research, you know?_ So, in the post-shower evenings, in snatched moments between being roped into the various escapades of the rest of the Rose family, enduring the sticky fingers of a classic Schitt's Creek endless summer pressed to the back of his neck, David pulls out his laptop and puts Google through its paces.

"So I was thinking," David says, putting Phase I of his plan into motion as they lock up for the night, a few days later, "We should start investing in vertical storage."

"Sure," Patrick replies, absently, tallying numbers at the register.

"Let's say we start stocking some lovely coats," David continues. "We _can't_ box those. They'll have to be hung up. And it will also free up space in the back room for effectively organizing the items we have to store at ground level. The Apothecary has a high ceiling, I think we should put it to use."

Patrick flashes the float into their deposit box, sparkles eddying in the air. "Okay. I mean, that all sounds very reasonable, so— _oh,_ " he says, quietly, when he finally looks up to see David holding the towel rail that he's fished out of his daybag. And, god, having this conversation in the golden hour was the best damn choice he's made today, as David watches Patrick's reaction unfold into the light—the column of his throat moving, his mouth dropping softly open, the flick and twitch of his wings, all laid out in exquisite golden detail.

Then: "David," Patrick says, in a tone he's never heard before—reverent, like a prayer, like David's gifting him luxury Japanese suncream instead of a stolen towel rail from a barely functional, cursed motel. "No, you don't like heights, and that's—we had a very sincere conversation about a three-hour parasailing breakup the other morning, and I know we got kind of, uh, distracted towards the end, so if I wasn't completely clear, I am one hundred, _thousand_ percent okay with us not doing any flying stuff."

"I mean, I don't know what _you're_ referring to, I'm obviously discussing outerwear," David says, feeling his smile start to dig into his cheeks. "I was thinking, we could start with one, just to work out the logistics. Of the storage. Ease into it, take it slow, see if it's a viable solution. Because, I've had some time to think about it, and it _is_ something I think I would like to explore. If it's a venture you're also on board with."

"But, this is—it's your _store_ ," Patrick tries, again. "You _know_ how I get when—I just don't want you risking everything you've built for, um. For the coats."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I've been having a lot of cold showers lately, and they're really starting to dry out my skin?" David replies. "I feel like, really, knowing our future coats can have a place here if we need it will do wonders for my peace of mind, and my personal supply of body milk. And if you're worried about some of the fibers from the coats, uh, shedding, it's very easy to cover all of our ground stock in plastic sheeting. In fact, it's probably better for keeping dust—like, the non-magical kind—out anyway, so." He sets the rail down on the desk and then leans over to kiss Patrick, soft, like the setting sun—warm and bright under his eyelids. "Think about it. I'll see you tomorrow."

Patrick isn't doing his usual rounds in the store proper when David gets in the next day, though their morning minutiae seems to be all wrapped up. It's possible that he's not even in the store—flashed out to do some errand, or something—except David hears a noise from the back, and pulls back the curtain to find Patrick up in the air, wings a gentle hum of blue, inspecting the towel rail that he's now apparently affixed to the central support beam. Patrick drifts down to meet him, sparkles trailing the air in his wake, and greets him with one of his favorite Patrick-kisses—leveraging his ability to fly so that David has to tilt his head _up_ to chase his lips, bumping across his nose until Patrick brings up his hands to grip his jaw, directing him through each warm point of skin, steady and sure. "Hi," he says.

"Hi," David replies, softly, biting into his cheek to temper his grin. "Someone's been busy."

"Been up since five," Patrick admits, smiling. "Couldn't sleep. _Thinking_ about it, as you said. Our little coat storage solution. Anyway, I watched some YouTube tutorials." He zips back up to the beam, giving the rail a little demonstrative tug. "Seemed simple enou— _uhh._ " The rail, despite giving an impression of being bolted into the support beam, has come right off into Patrick's hands. "Hmm. Okay. DIYBabe54 did not cover this part."

The answer to the philosophical question 'how many fairies does it take to install a towel rail?' is apparently 'maybe one, but that one is not Patrick.' David takes a moment, considering how best to phrase this. "So I'm thinking we should call in a professional."

"It's fine," Patrick mutters, repositioning the rail at the beam with a frown, screws gently orbiting him on a bed of sparkles. "Probably just didn't screw it in tight enough, should be an easy fix—"

"Okay, honestly, as much as I have faith that eventually you can add this to your very impressive collection of skills, I really feel, for the sake of the _coats_ , that we need to call someone in," David reiterates, already fishing his phone out of his pocket. They still have a good window before opening, so if he plays his cards right— "Hi, Ronnie," he says, once she picks up. "Do you have time to do a quick job at the store this morning?"

" _David,"_ Patrick hisses, flashing immediately into his space. "No, _don't_ bring Ronnie into this, she's going to—David, give me the phone—she will _never_ let me live this down."

"Thank you, absolutely, one second— _stop,_ " he reprimands Patrick, one hand pressing the receiver to his chest, the other pressed to _Patrick's_ chest to keep his grappling arms at bay. "Let me work _my_ magic here, okay? It will be _fine._ "

Ronnie, when she arrives with her toolbox a little while later, takes one look at the towel rail, and one look at Patrick—arms crossed tight at his chest, stiff-winged, jaw locked mulishly—and then cocks an eyebrow. "So you want this up _there?_ "

"It's for hanging coats," David feels obliged to point out.

"Sure it is," Ronnie replies, dryly, with a smirk that speaks volumes—that speaks an entire _library_ —as to how she's clearly aware of the true purpose of this install. David winces, internally, and tries to subtly sneak a reassuring hand onto Patrick's shoulder—seems his prediction wasn't exactly wrong, here. "Well, looks like whoever tried to hang it used the wrong type of screws. Don't think I need three guesses as to who that was." She squints up at the beam. "What'd you do here, Brewer, hit them with a hammer? I mean, hey, at least that means you're hitting something."

Patrick and Ronnie are doing a baseball thing now, as it is apparently 'baseball season'. It doesn't seem to have helped build any bridges between them, as far as David can tell. "I got—they're _screws,_ " Patrick says, frustrated. "They're the right size, and if they fit in the hole, then there's no reason the thing should come off!"

"Anyone can go to a Home Depot, whether you're riding the sparkle train or Highway 48. Doesn't mean you know what to do when you get there," Ronnie retorts. "So I hope you're better at _hanging coats_ better than you are at installing the hanger." She then chuckles heartily at her own joke, and David presses his lips together very tightly to keep his face from betraying his much-maligned magical maybe-boyfriend, who is _not_ amused. "Anyway," she continues, "I think I've got a few spares that should fit this piece lying around at the shop, so I'll head back over for those and a ladder. Back in fifteen."

"You know, I keep forgetting that the rest of the world apparently knows a lot more about fairies than I do," David comments, sheepishly, into the silence she leaves behind.

"Oh, I bet you do," Patrick mutters, grumpily, and storms back into the front of the store in a sparkly huff.

Ronnie, true to her word, does get the rail installed without further incident. Then David makes nice with Patrick by actually going out to the cafe around mid-morning and bringing their coffee orders over physically, rather than asking Patrick to flash himself there and back as per their usual routine. By closing, however, the oil he's poured over troubled waters has been spread thin, and Patrick's gotten a little choppy. 

"Well, the store certainly had a great day," Patrick says, flicking his fingers and magically locking the front door with a little more of a jerk than he usually puts into it, sparks spraying out from the handle. "It's so great when we're that busy. Even if you'd think, with both of us at the store, we _could_ have both stayed up front to divide up the work."

"Mm," David agrees, leaning on the counter by the cash and watching Patrick.

Patrick's eyes narrow. His wings twitch in a way David has come to associate with _annoyance._ "Are you going to balance the register today?"

"Nope!" David says, really putting some extra pep into it.

Patrick's lips compress, then he takes a deep breath, steadying himself before walking over to David. "David," he says. "What is going on with you today? You spent all day in the back, now you're going to make me do all the closing too?"

"I did not spend all day in the back," David protests, stepping a little closer to Patrick. Patrick's arms uncross automatically, his hands finding their favorite resting spot on David's hips. David doesn't bother to hide his smirk as he winds his arms over Patrick's shoulders. Sometimes Patrick's predictability really works in his favor. "I helped Mrs. Roy find the right tinted SPF for her skin tone."

"After I asked you _three times_ ," Patrick says, pulling David a little closer, as if that's somehow going to make him feel bad. "What were you doing back there, anyway?"

David allows his smile to grow wider. "Come and see."

He walks backwards as he pulls Patrick into the back room, so he can see Patrick's face. It's everything David hoped for—confusion followed by immediate comprehension, excitement rapidly devolving into horror, morphing into embarrassment—

"David," Patrick says slowly, looking around. "David. Please tell me you didn't get all this plastic sheeting from—"

"From Ronnie," David says. "Yes, I did." 

"Oh my god," Patrick yelps. "Do you understand, she is going to laugh at me for _years,_ she is _never_ going to stop laughing at me, Ronnie does _not_ let things go and this is exactly the kind of thing she—"

"Patrick," David interrupts firmly, and reaches for Patrick's face with both his hands. He so rarely gets to be the calm rational one in any relationship, let alone in— _whatever_ one would define what he and Patrick are doing now, and he finds he enjoys it a surprising amount. "It's just sex. It's fine. Ronnie and I talk about sex all the time."

Patrick stops, his mouth wide open. "You—what? When do you talk about sex with _Ronnie?"_

"Mm, you know we sell lube here, right?" David says, struggling to keep a straight face. "Believe me when I say I now know a lot, and I mean a _lot_ , about the effects of perimenopause on the female reproductive system. The human female reproductive system," he amends, frowning. Do fairies go through menopause? Probably not, considering they don't carry their young, and thus likely don't ovulate. When asked about the specifics of fairy reproduction in the days following the Auberge, Patrick had waxed lyrical on activated dust 'fusion partners' and 'podlings' and some kind of magic-symbiotic tree surrogacy mechanics, but there could be some sort of period of fertility on the 'human' side that ends after—

"Wow," Patrick breathes, and David blinks, orienting himself to the conversation again. "That is—a lot more than I want to know about Ronnie."

"Oh, god, I know," David agrees fervently. "But, um, if she starts teasing you, when you're out there doing The Baseball, maybe you can just think about how you're not the only one in the world who wants to have very, very good sex."

"I really don't see that being helpful out on the pitch," Patrick remarks. "But, just following up here," he continues, his voice a little bit lower, "Very, very good sex? Two very's, are we sure about that?" His hands settle on David's hips again, his fingers sneaking up under David's sweater.

"Mm," David says, shivering a little as Patrick's thumbs unerringly find the sensitive spots on the front of his hipbone. "I did have some thoughts about that, yes."

"Feel free to share," Patrick says, leaning in until his lips are just above David's, tantalizing for the briefest of seconds, then settling, firm and confident and highly distracting.

"My thoughts," David says, a long minute later. "I had thoughts. A question, actually."

"Mm?" Patrick says hazily. His hands are under both David's sweater and undershirt now, and David raises his arms to let Patrick push them all the way off. Patrick abandons them halfway, though, twisted around David's arms, and leans in to lick and suck at David's collarbone. 

"Fuck," David says, and wrestles the shirts over his head. Patrick bites down, just a little, and David has to fight to keep his voice even. "So, fairy orgasms."

"Familiar with the concept," Patrick says into his skin. He's nibbling his way down David's chest, lifting David just an inch off his feet, one arm firm around David's lower back. 

David tilts his head back to stare at the newly installed bar on the ceiling and tries to focus. "You said—you can do it a fairy way, and a human way. Correct?"

"Mm," Patrick says affirmatively. David has a strong suspicion Patrick is only half listening.

"And you have a magical refractory period, when the dust regenerates." David rubs firmly down over Patrick's shoulders, his fingers skirting the upper edge of Patrick's wings, Patrick's moan vibrating through him where Patrick's mouth has just found his nipple. "So I was wondering—what do you think—could you—" Fuck, he can't _think_ , he grabs Patrick's head to pull him up. Patrick blinks at him. "If I alternate making you come the human way and the fairy way, how many times can I make you come tonight?"

"Lots," Patrick says hoarsely, and pulls David down into a real kiss.

They both get naked in very short order: the sequence of events consisting of Patrick plucking at David's waistband and gasping, half into his mouth, _David, can I, please,_ and David, weakened by desire (to the detriment of his duty of care towards Rick Owens), goes _yes, okay, yes,_ followed by Patrick immediately magicking their clothing right off—they are going to have to establish some sort of standard operating procedure here ASAP, because there is _no_ way for David to ensure the correct humidity for storing haute couture in a fairy dimension. But that's for another time, when David's entire existence isn't narrowed down to sparkles and hot skin and slick mouths, and he's panting when he demands, "Which way first? Patrick, which do you want first? Tell me what you want."

"I don't—" Patrick stutters in between kisses. "Can you—you decide."

"Fairy way first," David says, because yes he _does_ have a plan, thank you very much. "Want your, I want your dust all over me, cover me with it, wanna taste you, give it to me."

Patrick groans, pressing his forehead to David's collarbone, for a moment, and then, "Okay," he replies unsteadily, drawing back. "Oh god, yes, okay, that is definitely something I can do, uh—" He tilts his head up to the ceiling, taking a few, long breaths. "Do you want to, uh, or I can—" 

" _You_ can…?" David repeats, curious, and then he realizes— "Wait, are you saying there's a _fairy_ way to jerk off?" He'd never actually considered—well, any other method apart from the very human way that's proved tried and true for him over many, _many_ years. But, it does make sense that, for any kind of orgasm, if there's a way to get there together, there must be a way to get there alone.

"We wouldn't use 'jerk off', a comparative term would be to, uh, 'husk it', go 'husking'," Patrick is saying. "Since you're alone, no fusion, you're not seeding the trees, so." Patrick does frequently try to fuck with David on the fairy culture front, but—he's chewing his lip, a little, looking at David from under his lashes, _flushed_ , so this could actually— "It became a, uh, semi-regular pastime, for me, while I was on assignment with you," he adds.

"Oh," David says, his voice dropping hot and low. "Well, that's, um. That's, very." God, the idea of Patrick thinking about him, consumed by it, to the point of not even wanting to get off with someone else, flashing off somewhere to be alone and just— "Show me," David blurts out, swallowing heavily, heat thrumming through him, "Um, that is, if you'd like to, do that. For me."

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Patrick replies, a bit too breathily to really sell the tease, and then he takes David by the waist and gently leads him over to a bare stretch of wall. He braces himself there, hands anchored at David's hips but body angled away. David would whine about the utter unfairness of the pocket of air created by this position, but there's more than adequate compensation in the unobstructed view David now gets of Patrick's wings, cutting gorgeous, elegant lines through the air. "Pretend you're a tree," Patrick whispers, tucking his head against David's shoulder. 

"Well, lucky for you, I attended an elementary theatre school, and I actually have a lot of experience playing this particular role," David replies, dryly. Patrick laughs, soft, and doesn't respond further—just turns his face into David's neck and continues to breathe, short and shallow. David, unsure where to put his hands, lets them hang against the wall, for the time being. "You're not going to, um, touch yourself?" he asks, after a few moments of this.

"This way is, it's less, uh, physical, in the human sense," Patrick murmurs. "'S'more about _feeling_ , through magic, uh—I mean, you can touch me, if you want." He lets out a shuddery breath, and his wings are trembling as they start shedding dust, coils of fine, shimmering blue hazing the air. "But you don't need to."

"What's it like?" David asks, impulsively, transfixed by the way the activated dust catches the light, swirling and sparkling around them. "The feeling, how do you—I mean, what are you—"

"I'm thinking about you," Patrick gasps, hot against David's skin. "The way you feel, through reality—even if you were a million miles away, you're right here, you're already touching me, _fuck,_ David, it feels so—" He gulps in air, gripping David's hips hard. "Keep talking, tell me—what you're thinking about, what you want to—" 

Oh, dirty talk. A few pieces slip into place in David's mind. He's going to put it all together, everything Patrick likes, everything he knows about himself and a few things he doesn't, and he's going to rock Patrick's world. David takes a deep breath, and prepares to drown Patrick in a veritable river of verbal filth.

What comes out, though, is "You're gorgeous, sweetheart." David blinks, almost shocked at himself—as though the sweetness in the air, laced on his tongue, has somehow perfused into his brain—but then Patrick moans, loud and uninhibited and clearly into it, so okay, David's instincts seem to be working just fine. "You're—I love it, how you look," David tries, a little more hesitant now that he's doing it on purpose, but it starts to come easily enough. "Look at you, you're being so sweet for me, you're—I love seeing how much you want me."

"I want you," Patrick echoes, a little broken. "Oh god, David, I want you so much, give me—"

"I'm here," David says, "You want me, I'm here, always." Dust is thick in the air, now, like a filter has been swiped across his eyes, the whole back room turned Nashville-tinted blue—the sweetness so heavy, so potent, that David can barely resist the urge to stick out his tongue and just _taste_ , gulping in air like a dog out a car window. He spares a thought to hope that Ronnie's suggested technique for overlapping and taping down the plastic sheeting is as dust-proof as she promised—her description did come with an extremely off-color story of certain shenanigans in her youth that suggested she did, in fact, have direct experience of its efficacy—but at the moment this information is neither relevant nor sexy, and David shakes it off. "You gonna come for me, Patrick?" he asks, and his voice comes out low and intimate. "I want it. I want to see it. I want you everywhere, I want to taste you, want you all over me." 

"Fuck," Patrick says, panting into David's neck, gripping his hips so tightly he might actually bruise from it, "Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ "

"Do it, come on, give it to me," David growls, and then his hands are off the wall and sliding greedily across Patrick's shoulders—because at this point it's either touch Patrick or touch himself, and David has _plans_ for tonight, he's not nineteen anymore, he needs to hold out as long as he can. But then Patrick shifts, unexpectedly, and one of David’s hands slips a little further down Patrick’s back than he intended, his fingertips gently brushing the edge of one perfect wing. 

"Fffuuu—" Patrick says, and David closes his eyes automatically as he becomes the center of a soundless blue supernova, so bright he can see it through his eyelids. He can smell it, he can taste it even though his mouth is closed, his mouth is watering for it and he hears himself make a high, whining, wanting sound, only partially drowned out by Patrick's deep moan.

"Oh my _god_ ," Patrick says, a second later.

David opens his eyes carefully. He's sure he's coated with dust, but it doesn't feel gritty. He feels a little guilty for touching Patrick's wing like that, even if it was kinda-sorta-mostly by accident. Patrick had been very clear that, for fairies, touching wings is _"kind of taboo."_ And yes, maybe Patrick's body language had indicated a certain lack of reluctance to being touched near or around his wings, perhaps even a degree of desire? Yearning? And clearly the results of this particular accidental experiment were—positive. Very positive. _But that's no excuse,_ David tells himself firmly. They should—they should talk about this, oh god, David should probably _ask_ Patrick, in some sort of calm, collected, mature way, which is _definitely_ something David is capable of and not scary at all— 

Luckily for David's sanity, his mental monologue is interrupted when Patrick's head jerks up off of his shoulder, his hand coming up to grip David's jaw and a thumb swiped across David's lips, pressing down until they part—and then Patrick's mouth is on his, almost catching his own thumb in the crossfire, kissing David deep and dirty. David whimpers into his mouth, shifting his hands down to Patrick's waist so he can _finally_ pull his body against David's, where it belongs—the hot press of skin, the renewed friction against certain areas unjustly neglected while Patrick was putting on a show. It's so good he's almost dizzy with it.

"Sorry, just a sec, can't let it—" Patrick says breathlessly, pulling back, and seems to shiver for a moment—the dust coating his shoulders and back sliding off his skin and winking out of existence. He then flicks a shower of sparkles over David, working laterally across his body—the hand that touched his wing, caught right in the middle of the blast zone, across that arm and over his shoulders, down the other arm and back, then up to his neck and face, glittering in his peripheral vision until David blinks it away. "All clean," he says softly, and then leans back in, the press of his lips gentler, this time, an intermezzo until the next act _._

They make out lazily for a long minute. Patrick's mouth is soft, slow and lush, and it slows David down too, makes his own arousal seem almost unimportant compared to the way Patrick's lips linger on his. Eventually David realizes they're grinding together, one of Patrick's hands sliding low on his ass. Patrick is hard again, or hard still, and right, David had a plan here.

"I had a plan," he says into Patrick's mouth, slightly muffled. 

"Mm," Patrick says agreeably, squeezing David's ass again.

"Really," David insists, pulling back, then immediately undercutting himself by going back in for another kiss. "I have—I'm gonna get you—here, stop, let me—"

Patrick lets him go, and it takes a real effort for David not to reel him back in. He lets himself have one deep breath, get himself a little more under control, and then he turns around to reach behind the box where he'd stashed all the necessary items earlier. "Here we are," he says, triumphantly pulling out a large jar of Nutella.

"Huh," Patrick says, frowning at it. "Is that for me?"

David hesitates, suddenly unsure. "Don't you need to, you know, for your magic?" He gestures at Patrick's now-translucent wings. "To recharge?" 

" _Oh_ , sure, yeah," Patrick replies after a beat, taking the jar from David's hands. "Thank you, David, it's just—generally, I go for the more, ah, candy side of the equation?" He flips over the jar, eyes quickly skimming the label. "Higher sugar content is more effic—oh my god, _fifty-five percent?_ Isn't this stuff advertised as a part of a 'balanced breakfast' for human kids?"

"Mm, makes sense that you wouldn't consider it as an option," David says, feeling immediately gratified, and no small part smug. "See, you are in the presence of a person with _extensive_ knowledge and experience in the finest of junk food dining. And, in my professional opinion, that thirty percent fat content cuts through the sweetness enough that moms across the country have no idea their 'balanced breakfast' is reason their kids are losing their minds in the minivan on the way to—" 

Patrick has opened the jar, stuck his finger in, and popped it in his mouth. His cheeks hollow as he sucks, and David suddenly has no memory of what he was about to say.

"Not bad, actually," Patrick says, giving his finger a last lick. David may make a small, undignified noise at the pink flicker of his tongue. "You're right—fifty-five should taste a _lot_ sweeter than this does. Oh, man, I don't know why I never considered—I mean, all the other fairies just—" He shakes his head, chuckling, and then looks back to David, a smile pressing hard into his cheeks. "I really do appreciate this, David, thank you. Hey, you want some?"

"No, it's for you," David says automatically, but his eyes follow Patrick's finger as he sticks it back in the jar. "Ew, that was just in your mouth," he objects, but Patrick is smirking at him.

"I have some breaking news for you about the places my mouth has been, lately," Patrick replies, amused. "And, whether it's taking the scenic route or something more direct, _your_ mouth is heavily featured. Speaking of which: open up, David." And David does—his mouth _pinging_ right open like the register in the store proper, ready for the money shot—because it's either that or have an entire coronary event. Patrick's finger slides across his tongue, Nutella and a little extra dust from somewhere and the salt of Patrick's skin, and David has to fight to keep his eyes open. "And, just speaking for myself, here," Patrick continues, velvety soft, "I think my mouth has seen worse."

"Worse, or better," David rasps, but Patrick's already got another fingerful of Nutella in his own mouth and David leans forward to kiss the small streak of chocolate-hazelnut spread at the corner of his lips.

Things get very sticky after that. David is relatively sure that Patrick gets a fair amount of sugar in him, though, in addition to on his hands and face and David's left nipple. David can see blue starting to streak up Patrick's wings, so something's working.

"Can I—" David says.

"Mmhm," Patrick replies. He's got one leg wrapped entirely around David's ass, wings humming as he brings himself up to just the right height, a height that gets their cocks lined up _perfectly,_ and David can't stop grinding against Patrick's unbelievably soft skin.

"I don't—what are you agreeing to?" David manages.

"Yes," Patrick says, and licks his ear. "Whatever it is. I want it. Do it."

"That's not—" David objects. "What if I—"

"But you don't," Patrick breathes. "Do you?"

"Well, no," David admits. He ducks his head into Patrick's neck, tries to manage the hot soup of excitement and nervousness swimming in his gut as he contemplates the next part of his plan. Luckily Patrick's neck is very distracting, salty and musky and just a hint of stubble on the underside of his jaw, plus his breath catches every time David uses his teeth. "I want—I just want—I want you to fuck me."

"Oh, _definitely_ ," Patrick says, pulling back, eyes sparkling. "How do you want to do this?"

"Um," David says, looking up at the bar on the ceiling. Patrick follows his gaze, and lets out a soft _oh_ of acknowledgement. David has to swallow—it's a lot, to know that Patrick knows what he wants, and knows what it means to David, and very shortly here they're actually going to be doing it, in midair, _way_ too close to a ceiling that David has more than once admired for its high exposed beams but now seems far too high, excessively high really, if you think about it, which David _is_ —

"Hey, David?" Patrick says, after a moment, warm and gentle. "We don't have to hang any coats tonight. We can tell all our customers they're on backorder with the supplier, for as long as you want."

David smiles in spite of himself. "Okay, first of all, we are not telling our customers about _any_ of this. But, second of all, uh, I do. I want to do this. It's more, uh, I had a _lot_ of ideas about how this was going to play out? But there isn't exactly a WikiMagic, and when I tried to look up, uh, fairy porn, all I found were humans in poorly-sealed body glitter with costumes sourced directly from a discount Halloween store." 

"Yeah, you won’t find any of that on the internet," Patrick replies, mouth quirking up. "Remind me, later, to show you why."

Now that is a _very_ tantalizing piece of information, but—later. _Stick to the plan,_ David reminds himself, and, with another quick glance up at the bar, continues: "So, what I’m saying is, I don't really know how—like, through actual physics—we're meant to, um—"

"Hey," Patrick says, again, and kisses him, soft but unhesitating. He's got both feet back on the ground now, and the angle as he leans up into David's mouth is different and equally good. "Are you taking suggestions?"

"Mm, always," David says, then glares when Patrick barely attempts to hide his snicker. "About sex, I am always taking suggestions about sex, specifically. If it's a good suggestion."

"Oh, it's a good suggestion," Patrick says, confidently, with that cocksure smirk he usually attaches to a good pitch—the business fairy special—which never fails to make David weak at the knees. "What do you say we take this in steps. Step one, we're just going to keep making out for a bit, I'll take you up a few feet, and we can reassess from there."

"Okay," David replies, after a moment. "Okay. So…"

"So, here," Patrick says, pulling him in close, arms wrapped snug around his waist, leaning _up_ to kiss him this time. David lets his hands settle across Patrick's shoulders and falls back into his mouth for a few minutes, and, it's good, it's _always_ good, but—

"Are you going to…?" David asks, opening his eyes, and then— "Oh." Somehow, without David even noticing, they're already one foot off the floor. "I didn't even _feel_ —how do you _do_ that?"

"Smoothest ride in the skies," Patrick says, smiling broadly and shooting him a wink. "Ready for step two?"

"Yes, I think so," David replies. He closes his eyes again, trying to feel any sense of motion, but there's just—nothing. No howl of wind, no terrifying lurch of the towline, a distinct lack of sea spray whipping into his face from the churning, hungry ocean below. It's honestly like riding the elevator in the Burj Khalifa: one moment bickering with Alexis about whether to visit the Dubai Mall or Mall of the Emirates first (he wanted to ski, she wanted to check out the aquarium), and the next moment they're at the 124th floor. 

"How's this," Patrick murmurs into his neck, worrying at the skin with his teeth and then soothing against it with his tongue, in turns—which is good, distracting, pulling focus from the reality of David's feet not being on the ground, and a significant distance now separating him from it. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking, um, we are very high up," David says, tilting his head back to give Patrick better access, the ceiling coming into view—a _lot_ closer than it usually is. "But I'm also thinking about this hickey that you are giving me, which I am enjoying immensely, but hope is not going to be visible when we have to go to work tomorrow."

"You would look very cute in a turtleneck," Patrick mumbles, blowing air onto his skin. David shivers, and Patrick's arms draw tighter, lovely lines of muscle shifting against his sides, his back.

"Now you're just flattering me," David replies, and Patrick laughs, making his way up to his jawline. "Okay, I'm thinking about, um, your arms. Mainly, how you're holding me up here without even breaking a sweat, which is insane—I mean, I know, magic _has_ to be involved, somewhere, your wings can't be doing _all_ the work, but I can't help feeling like I really need to spend more time at the gym. But this _Dirty Dancing_ meets _Titanic_ semi-lift situation is also _very_ hot, so, I suppose it evens out."

"Mm, now who's the flatterer," Patrick says, amused. "Assuming it _is_ flattery. Haven't seen either of those _._ Though I thought the whole Titanic thing was meant to be very tragic."

"Well, yes, the ship did sink," David replies. He risks a quick glance down at the floor, then squeezes his eyes closed. "But before that, Kate Winslet and Leo DiCaprio did share a lovely romantic moment on deck where Leo holds her up against the railing at the front of the boat and she goes, 'I'm flying, Jack!', which is then followed by some very steamy car sex and an erotic painting session."

"Seems like a miracle that they survived that harrowing event and went on to have successful acting careers," Patrick murmurs into David's skin.

David's mouth twists as he fights down a smile. "You and I both know what you're trying to do here, and I'm not falling for it this time."

"You got me," Patrick admits, pulling away from David’s neck and grinning widely. "But I've got you, so no one's falling for anything right now. Want to go back down?"

"But we're not," David begins, looking up at the bar—not far, now, but not exactly close, either.

"You've got your plan, and I've got mine," Patrick replies, and proceeds to take them back down, soft and easy, until David's bare feet hit the reassuringly solid floor. "Step three: I'm going to kiss you, but I want you to keep your hands by your sides, okay? And close your eyes."

"Okay," David replies, softly. Patrick flies up a little, until they're eye-to-eye, and leans in, nudging past his nose and lightly catching his top lip between his teeth. He keeps kissing like this—light, teasing, _distracting_ —and David has to dig his nails into the meat of his palms to stop himself from reaching out and pulling Patrick in, closer, deeper, _something_. Patrick slowly leans away and David's head comes forward automatically, chasing the ghost of his breath and catching only air, letting out a tight whine of frustration.

"Alright," Patrick says, laughter warm in his voice. "You can open your eyes, now."

"I don't see how—oh my god," David breathes, because he's _floating_ —granted, only a foot above the ground, but entirely unassisted, as Patrick watches from a short distance away, a soft smile on his face. He can feel _something_ against his skin, a slight resistance, pushing against him when he pushes back against it, holding him up—almost like a waterbed, but without the seasickness—and when David lifts his left arm, looking a little closer, he can see little pinpricks of light winking around it, the tell-tale sparkle of Patrick's magic. He knows Patrick can levitate heavy objects—he's seen it happen many times, Patrick sending boxes flying through the air like they weighed nothing—but hadn't actually considered Patrick, completely unassisted by his body, being able to float _him_. 

"Oh my _god_ ," David says, again, but this time he's grinning, and Patrick's smile deepens to match his.

"Step four, ready to take this a little higher?" Patrick asks, waggling his eyebrows ridiculously.

David bites back a laugh. "As long as there's no more of _that_ —" he gestures around his own brows, "—then yes, I believe I am."

"Going up," Patrick replies, and then—David keeps his eyes open this time, and again the sensation is so gentle that it doesn't actually feel like he's moving, more that the room moves _around_ him, Patrick keeping perfect pace as they both rise up in the air. David's almost surprised when the chrome bar comes into view, juxtaposed right between the two of them. "Boop," Patrick says, in a terrifyingly accurate impression of Alexis, and taps the bar with one finger.

"Well, thank you for ruining the mood," David grumbles. 

Patrick laughs, then wraps his hand around the bar, giving it a firm tug. Thankfully, this time, it stays put. David mirrors him with his left hand, nudging up against Patrick's, so Patrick adds his other hand to the mix and David follows suit, until they're just gripping the bar and grinning at each other through the slot of air between their hands and the wooden beam above.

"So, is this, are we doing this?" David asks, pulse starting to pick up—because they're _here_ , now, they're up here, ready to go, David is _ready_ , he's definitely—

"Well, not quite yet," Patrick says, dryly. "We can do most of the, ah, getting ready on the ground."

"Right," David replies, secretly a little relieved. "I mean, if that's what you want to—if that's what you think is best."

"I just wanted to make sure you were able to see, for yourself, that this thing?" Still holding the bar, Patrick dips down a little, extending out his arms, and then pulls himself back up smoothly. "Is just for resistance, and providing leverage. It's not gonna be what's holding you up here—though, if it helps your peace of mind, much as I hate to admit it, it _is_ very sturdily anchored." He rolls his eyes, his mouth twitching to the side. "Don't tell Ronnie I said that."

David leans in close, sneaking a kiss to Patrick's knuckles, the barest brush of lips on skin. "Your secret is safe with me."

"Point is, I've got you," Patrick continues, shifting his hands over so their fingers interlace, gaze warm and steady on David's. "With magic, with my own hands. Do you trust me to do that for you? And, again," he adds, before David can say anything, "You can say no, it's not going to upset me, I promise, it's completely fine if you—"

"No," David cuts in, and immediately backtracks, because that's not what he _meant_ to— "I mean, no, I don't want to _say_ no, what I want to say is, yes. I _am_ saying yes. I trust you. With this. And also, um, other stuff. Generally. Which is a very intense thing for me to come to terms with like fifteen feet in the air, so, what's the next step."

"Okay, I can't kiss you through this gap," Patrick says, practically beaming. "So, step five, I'm going to take us back down and fix that."

True to his word, Patrick takes David's face in his hands as soon as his feet hit the floor and kisses him deeply, greedily, his smile stretched against David's mouth, crowding him up against the wall. David had softened a little—due to the excruciating process of talking about trust, and the surprisingly far less excruciating process of flying—but that's quickly turned _right_ back around, until he's gasping as he flails one hand out against the wall, scrabbling vaguely towards where he's stashed the necessities, trying to reroute his brain-to-mouth pipeline to form actual words instead of just sticking his tongue back in Patrick's mouth and calling it a day. Patrick, a fucking genius and a scholar, flashes David's lube right into his hand without even looking, followed by the condoms—leaving them both to float in the air as he flips David around by the hips, a few kisses placed tenderly at his spine a balm to the burn and stretch of Patrick's first finger pressing inside him.

"This is not," David gasps, "your first time doing _this_."

"Mm," Patrick agrees, twisting his finger expertly. "I may have gotten in some extra solo practice, lately. The human way is less fun, and the angle's different, but—" David has only half a second to bask in the glow of Patrick getting off in _multiple_ ways while thinking about him before Patrick presses a second finger in, reaching just a little further, and David makes a garbled noise as he hits the perfect, perfect spot. "Yeah," Patrick says, annoyingly smug.

Patrick works David open quickly and efficiently, which David is very grateful for, because he is _done_ with taking it slow, it's all he can do to brace himself against the wall, nearly sobbing with sensation, and try not to straight-up lose his _mind_. "Okay," David says, when he can't stand it anymore. "Condom. Condom _now_ , I need you to fuck me, come on, come on." 

Patrick's hand clenches on David's hip. "Yeah. Yeah, okay," Patrick says, and even though his voice is shaking his fingers are steady as he pulls out. 

David whirls around as soon as he can, because he has to kiss Patrick, just a quick kiss, hard and fast and needy. He snatches a condom from the air where it's still hovering and hands it to Patrick.

"Um," Patrick says, wide-eyed.

"Right," David says, remembering. All that condom-less human porn Patrick, apparently, watched. "Um. Do you want me to—"

"Yes," Patrick says immediately, handing the condom back to him.

David tries not to smile as he takes it. It's cute, in a way, to see Patrick a little unsure of himself. Just a smidge. "Luckily for you, I am a condom connoisseur," David teases. "Got an EGOT in contraceptive application—Extremely Gifted, Obviously Talented, the crowd goes wild—" Patrick barks out a laugh, chuckling half into David's mouth as he kisses Patrick again for his troubles. He tears open the packet, pops out the condom, and rolls it down Patrick's cock in one smooth move. Patrick hisses, clearly sensitive, and David kisses him some more, jacking him slowly.

"Now," he says between kisses. "Fly us up there and fuck me."

"You'll tell me," Patrick says into his mouth, hands secure at his waist, finally lifting them into the air, "if you want to stop. Or do something else. It'll be fine, I promise."

David manages to nod, and Patrick gives him another kiss, quick, a reward—then, as he opens his eyes again, there's the bar, right there. Keeping one hand steady at his hip, Patrick slides the other up David's arm, guiding him up to it. David takes hold with both hands, and there's no bad second—no hot jolt of vertigo, no dry mouth-butterfly nausea. Just Patrick, looking at him like he's hung the moon on this upcycled towel rail, and Patrick's gorgeous thighs sliding up under his own— _fuck,_ you can't get that kind of angle when gravity has a hold on you. And, arching out over his shoulders, Patrick's wings—not streaked anymore but now suffused in a full, warm blue, blurred in motion as they hum in the air, the unique shimmer that signals activated dust running up and down the sides in waves. Patrick's not putting out as much dust as he usually does, like David's grown used to. Maybe he's doing it on purpose. David shudders, ridiculously turned at the idea of Patrick keeping himself in control, holding himself back so that David can get what he wants, so that David can see him come again and again and again.

Patrick's hand now slides under David's ass and thigh, until David wraps both legs around Patrick's back and he's basically sitting in Patrick's lap. Patrick strains up into a kiss, just far enough below David that it's more an exchange of hot breath and subvocal whimpers than a real kiss, and then—for one flash of an instant—David remembers Ronnie's comment about _riding the sparkle train,_ and bites hard into his cheek to keep from laughing. By all accounts, he should be fucking terrified right now—he's suspended, _naked_ , from the ceiling, this is objectively a Darwin Awards entry waiting to happen—but he feels safe, he feels good, he feels _ready._

"Ready?" Patrick breathes, and David nods quickly, again, flexing his hands against the cool metal of the bar, heart thrumming in anticipation, if Patrick would just— "Okay," Patrick says, "okay, okay," and David feels him grab his own cock, nudge the tip against David's hole, and then—fuck, wow, Patrick is fucking up into him in one slow, smooth, strong stroke, and David is so glad he has the bar to hang on to because his back is arching involuntarily, and he's actually not sure whether his vision is going or it's just all the activated dust, but either way Patrick's cock is finally, finally inside him, and it feels even better than he knew it would. 

"—so good, David, you're so, oh god, can I, are you—" Patrick is saying from somewhere not that far away.

"Yes," David manages, "Yes, move, go, do it, fuck—" and then Patrick is, fucking up into David with a slow roll of his hips that drives all the breath from David's body.

David's had a lot of sex, in a lot of positions. He's had sex standing up, and precariously balanced sex, and he's had sex with two professional gymnasts and one Cirque du Soleil acrobat. He's had sex in four of the seven seas, and once almost had sex in a tub full of jello. It's fair to say he's had sex most of the ways it is possible to have sex.

He has never had sex like this. 

It's closest to fucking underwater, maybe, the way there's nothing in the way of their legs entangling with each other, the way each thrust moves them both in inescapable waves. But it's nothing like fucking underwater, partially because no one's worried about holding their breath or the perils of chlorine-induced rashes in sensitive areas, but mostly because Patrick's turned off the 'gravity' sign and kicked both Newton and his apple to the curb—he's driving into David with the full force of his body, as if David was pinned underneath him, not suspended above him. David is braced against the bar, but Patrick is braced against his _wings_. 

"Okay, hold on, I can—" Patrick says, as if David had managed to request something instead of vaguely whimpering, and leans back, wings a blur of blue, until—oh _fuck, god_ that angle is good. David isn't just whimpering any more, and may in fact be moaning loudly or possibly even yelling a little bit, because Patrick is hitting the exact right spot inside him, over and over and _over,_ and then Patrick's hand closes over David's cock and David is definitely yelling and also coming all over Patrick, in Patrick's hand, over his belly, through air thick with blue sparkles until Patrick looks like he's been painted with glitter glue.

David reaches for it with one hand, can't help himself, has to run his thumb through that mess and bring it to his mouth, and it's—god, it should be disgusting, come mixed with sugar-sweet dust, but it's—

"Oh fuck," Patrick chokes out, his hips jerking into David like he can't help it, shoving his cock deeper until David gasps, oversensitive. "Sorry, sorry, can I—David, do you need me to stop?"

"No," David says automatically, and then thinks about it. He's definitely sensitive, every twitch of Patrick's hand making him jerk, Patrick's cock inside him feeling hot and huge. But— "No, I want it. Do it, fuck me, keep— _fuck_."

Patrick takes him at his word and starts moving again, and it's all David can do to hang on for the ride. His cock is trying valiantly to stay hard, every thrust of Patrick inside him pushing out another drop of come. Patrick swipes his thumb over the tip, not breaking his rhythm at all, and the almost-too-much-ness of it brings tears to David's eyes. He can't look away from Patrick's gaze, dark and intense, as Patrick brings his hand up to David's lips and pushes his thumb in. David makes a noise that would be hugely embarrassing in any other circumstance as his mouth closes around it.

"Yes," Patrick hisses, thrusting faster. "Take it, suck it, let me—let me give it to you—" 

David sucks hard, sucks his own come and Patrick's dust off Patrick's thumb, and the tendons in Patrick's neck stand out as he grits his teeth and thrusts up into David one more time before he comes.

They hang there a minute, Patrick's wings slowly fanning the air—still mostly blue, but the color is thinner, patchier-hued, like a washed-out midwinter sky. David lets Patrick's thumb fall out of his mouth with a final lick of his tongue, and tries to catch his breath, feeling—like that midwinter sky, emptied of his regular itch of anxiety, washed out of thought, just clear, calm, bones-deep contentment.

"David," Patrick says finally, and it sounds like _thank you_. "David, you can let go now."

"Oh," David says. It takes him a second to remember how to loosen his fingers, still clinging to the metal bar above him. His shoulders complain as he lowers his arms, but Patrick's hands slide up his back, warm and gentle. David's arms settle on Patrick's shoulders and Patrick pulls him in, until David turns his face into Patrick's neck and closes his eyes as Patrick lets them drift downwards in a cloud of slowly settling glitter.

By the time David's even a little bit aware of anything as prosaic as whether the rules of physics apply to him in any consistent fashion, they're on the ground again. The wooden floor is hard, and the plastic covering it is a truly unpleasant texture on bare skin, and David can't bring himself to stop clinging to Patrick. Patrick shifts in his arms, leaning back just enough to do something magicky—after a long second, David realizes that he's flashed the condom away somewhere, which is by far the best use of magic he's seen yet—and then crowds back in to kiss him, fumbling and needy. David kisses back as well as he can—he came so hard his lips are numb. But he can somehow still feel Patrick smile against his mouth—the clearest point of focus cutting through his post-orgasm haze, a candle in the dark—and then David's smiling too, except he can't stop kissing Patrick, because—because that was good sex. That was very, very good sex.

"Okay," David mumbles eventually. "Okay. Gotta rehydrate, and—are you up for more? Can we do more?"

"Oh my god," Patrick says, laughing. 

"Also get off of this," David says, sitting up and making a face at the way the plastic sheeting tries to adhere to his skin. Between sweat, come, and dust both magical and non, there is only so much even magic can do. "Ugh, I did not think this plastic idea through. We can't be in the air all the time." The couch against the back wall is an option, maybe, if it was also liberated of the generous layers of sheeting taped down around it, but it's barely large enough for Patrick to lie across, let alone for the two of them to—

"Uh huh," Patrick is saying, and David would be annoyed at the amusement lingering in his voice except there's now a blanket in his hands, sparkles dissipating into the air. It's blue, because of course it is, and also plaid, which is deeply unfortunate, but—David reaches out to rub the edge between his fingers, and yes, those are natural fibers, so at least there's one saving grace here.

"Does it meet your standards?" Patrick asks, his eyes still crinkled at the corners.

"Hardly," David says, loftily. "So I'm going to be on the bottom, where I don't have to look at it."

"So, if I told you it's a very special family heirloom—"

David freezes. "Um. It is?"

"No, David," Patrick says, laughing again. "You think I'd have sex on top of a very special family heirloom? Or even _have_ a very special family heirloom? I'm descended from a tree. And I don't think they can weave."

"I should know by now to assume you're just being an asshole, at all times," David mutters. Patrick laughs, and kisses him, and spreads the blanket out on the couch while David goes and gets them a couple bottles of water from his makeshift supply station. When David comes back, Patrick pulls him down onto the blanket and kisses him again, his mouth cool and soft.

They keep kissing lazily, pressed together, legs intertwined. David feels so good, everything feels so good, everywhere his skin touches Patrick feels like it's buzzing. He's in no rush, and it seems like Patrick isn't either—David's hands wander from Patrick's thighs to his neck and down again, while Patrick seems to be cataloging everything lips and tongues can do, and possibly making up a few new things while he's at it.

David's hands end up at the base of Patrick's wings, as they so often do, and, as David is learning to expect, it makes Patrick freeze up. Just for a split second—nothing noticeable, usually, especially because Patrick has a bit of a tendency to immediately distract David. But pressed together as they are, it's unmistakable.

"Sorry," David says, wincing and moving his hand away. "Sorry, was that too close? I know you said that's taboo, for fairies, I didn't mean to—to make you uncomfortable." 

"Um," Patrick says again, and ducks his head to kiss the curve of David's neck. "I don't, uh, I don't actually mind. When you do that."

"Oh," David says, blinking. "Oh, _that_ kind of taboo."

Patrick sputters a laugh into David's neck. "I mean, mostly it's just because it makes us dizzy. Completely throws off your balance." He pulls back enough to gesture illustratively. "So, definitely not when we're mid-air, since it's kind of important that I know which way is up."

"That does not sound fun," David agrees, frowning. His hands are sneaking up Patrick's back again, though, finding the sweet curve at the base of Patrick's ribs. There's nothing taboo about it, it's a perfectly innocent place to touch. But David can feel Patrick's heart beating where they're pressed together, fast and wild. His cock is soft against David's equally soft cock, but his wings are still that gentle, midwinter blue, and the familiar sweetness is on David's tongue.

"It hasn't been," Patrick says. "Before."

David nods, and kisses Patrick, and doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to do anything Patrick doesn't want. There's so much they can do together—so much they've already done together. Some people don't want their toes sucked, or their nipples bitten, or sticky food on sexy body parts. Patrick doesn't want his wings touched. It's not a big deal to David.

"But," Patrick says, pulling away from David's mouth. 

David blinks his eyes open, since apparently he'd closed them at some point. Patrick's a little flushed, high on his cheekbones, bashful in a way he's rarely looked around David. On the other hand, he's also rarely asked for anything specific from David before. Not something new, not when they're not already in the middle of it. David wants him to ask.

David really, really wants him to ask.

Patrick swallows. "You... could."

David waits, but Patrick doesn't say anything else. His hands are warm on David's hips, a little sweaty, and he's biting his lower lip, but he doesn't say anything else.

"I don't need to," David says slowly. "If you don't—if it's not fun for you, we don't need to."

"I think," Patrick says, and dips in to kiss David again, as if for encouragement, "That it will be. Fun for me, I mean. I want you to." David's face must do something at that, because Patrick breaks into a grin, his eyes glinting with laughter, crinkling at the corners. "If you want to," Patrick adds, because he is, as always, an asshole.

Still. "Only if you're sure," David says, but he moves one finger up. Just an inch. Just enough to stroke the edge of one of Patrick's wings, where it arches up from his back.

Patrick's eyes go wide and his breath catches.

"Patrick," David says, infinitely fond. He just—he wants, so much, for Patrick to feel good. He's never wanted anything as much as he wants to make Patrick feel good. "Is it—what's it like?"

"I—" Patrick says, and takes a deep breath. "I—it's—" He shakes his head, closing his eyes for a moment. "Everything goes quiet. Everything but you. Only you." When he opens them again, they're fixed on David, and he says, "I like it. I want it. Keep going."

David does. 

He rolls onto his back, pulls Patrick halfway on top of him, takes a breath, and runs one finger from each hand, lightly but steadily, up the sides of Patrick's wings. Patrick's head falls forward as if he can't even hold it up, and he groans into David's neck. His wings are stock-still, shivering just enough under David's fingers to waft waves of blue into the air, settling over both of them like a particularly sparkly blanket.

"Yeah?" David says softly, just checking in, because Patrick's fingers are clenching spasmodically on his sides, and Patrick's breath on his neck is hot and fast.

"Yes," Patrick says, muffled. "Please. Yes."

David touches Patrick's wings as much as he wants, as much as he's wanted to for weeks now, months, maybe since the first time he saw them. He runs his fingertips up and down, traces the edges, swipes one palm carefully from bottom to top. Patrick's wings are fine, as gossamer-thin as insect wings, although deceptively strong. David is fairly confident he couldn't harm them even if he tried, but he is sure as hell not going to try. He feels tender, his hands as gentle as he can make them. Patrick is twitching above him, squirming until his still-soft cock grinds against David's, his breath coming in sobs. 

There's no burst of dust this time, no soundless explosion. Instead Patrick's wings shed constantly, continuously, while Patrick makes the most amazing noises and clings to David like he'd fall over if he didn't, even though they're still both lying down. David wants to keep doing this forever, wants to wring these sounds from Patrick and sweetness from his body, wants to hold him steady the way Patrick held him in midair earlier. _Only you_ , he thinks, feeling the weight of it against his chest, pressed somewhere between their skin, in that liminal space where Patrick ends and David begins. Maybe he doesn't have hypersensitive reality-bending magic wings, but _this_ is something David can understand, in his own small way: it's like meeting Patrick's eyes across the store, and, for a moment, the bustle of customers around him fading away—just Patrick's soft smile, pinched in at the corners. _Everything else goes quiet. Everything but you._

But eventually the room is thick with shimmery dust and Patrick's wings are translucent again, so David slows the sweep of his hands until Patrick's breath evens out, only the occasional hitch betraying him. David breathes with him. He's half-hard, because having a fully naked Patrick squirming against him would raise the literal dead, plus at this point he definitely has a Pavlovian response to that particular sweet taste in the air and on his tongue. But he feels no urgency to do anything about it. Mostly he wants to hold Patrick, gather him close and revel in how Patrick lets him. He ducks his head just enough to kiss Patrick's forehead, then lets the tip of his tongue peek out just enough to get a taste. God, the dust really did get everywhere.

"Gotta—" Patrick croaks without lifting his head. "Before it settles, gotta get the dust up."

"It's fine," David says, aiming for reassuring. It's not fine. Plastic sheeting on the floor was a nice enough idea, but completely inadequate—plastic sheeting on the walls might have helped a bit more. David experiences a sudden and completely personality-wrenching appreciation for the vinyl fake wood flooring at the fairy kink dungeon hotel.

"Really," Patrick insists, lifting his head. He looks a little bleary, but his eyes are bright. Also he has a streak of blue down the side of his forehead, across his upper lip like a mustache, and a very intriguing stripe disappearing under his jaw. "Believe me, David. We do not want all this to settle."

"Okay," David concedes, but can't help reaching up a hand to touch Patrick's face, right at the edge of the blue. That definitely doesn't help, because David's hands are covered. To put it mildly. "Just—kiss me first?"

"Well, if I have to," Patrick says, but he's grinning, and when he ducks his head to meet David's mouth he's eager and even a little bit sloppy.

David winds a hand around the back of his neck. "I guess I had a good idea after all, then. In spite of the hardware issues. And Ronnie."

Patrick laughs, but he kisses David one more time, soft and open. "You should know by now," he murmurs. "I trust you."

  
  


✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* **Step 4:** *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ **  
Be Flexible* when Facing Logistical Challenges  
*** _no, Patrick, we do not use the term 'compromise' in this house_

Sex with Patrick is fucking _incredible._ To say David's never experienced anything like it is, on the surface, obvious, since Patrick's a _fairy_ who can dual-wield interspecies orgasms at will. But it's also that Patrick is generous, a quick study, and _inventive_ (the multitasking possibilities with hands-free magic mean absolute wonders when David brings his toys into the mix) and, no matter how frequent their trips to the back room become, David just ends up wanting more. 

Patrick does, eventually, make good on his promise to show David fairy porn: grinning from ear to ear in the back room as he hands David a small wooden case—filled, inexplicably, with carefully pressed leaves, preserved in some sort of semi-flexible lacquer—a little wooden clip, and a pair of earbuds, and tells him to _have fun, I'll hold down the fort for a while._ Curled up on the couch, David—upon affixing the clip to a leaf and popping in the earbuds as per Patrick's somewhat baffling instructions—quickly figures out why he couldn't find any of this on the internet, because the scene plays out inside his _mind_. When they'd first met, Patrick had shown him something similar on his old magic Motorola RAZR: David's accidental wish sent out into the universe that had brought Patrick back to Schitt's Creek, once upon a time. But instead of experiencing his own feelings played back to him, the 'memorleaves' ( _MLVs, for short,_ Patrick informs him) give David what the _fairies_ feel—desire, excitement, uninhibited joy—and each touch seems to echo across his own skin, all his senses saturated with sensation. David understands, maybe, what Patrick meant about _feeling_ through the fabric of reality getting him off—even if Patrick can't read David's mind, god, _this_ is more than enough.

They all seem to take place in a variety of forested locales; David has zero ability to identify trees, but he notices that they all have very thick, sturdy branches. The MLV Patrick specifically mentioned as his favorite features a tall, muscular fairy, with bright flowers spun into his close-cropped, wiry hair, and gold wings lush and brilliant against his dark skin. He meets up with his lover, a more slender, blue-winged fairy ( _not as pretty as Patrick's_ , David thinks, smugly), freckles thick across his tanned shoulders and a green, leafy circlet nestled amongst red-brown curls. They kiss, and touch, and hold each other in a wild aerial dance, and neither of them even get _hard_ , but they finish together in a splendid explosion of gold and blue—spinning gracefully through eddies of glittering dust that's absolutely resplendent in the dappled light, laughing and pressing in to taste each other in turns as they slowly come to alight on a branch, hands clasped. The tapestry of their feelings woven throughout, the sheer magnitude of the love these two have for each other, is very intense. It's one of the weirder orgasms of David's life: very erotic, without a doubt, but accompanied by the kind of tender weeping he usually reserves for the deep soulful yearning of French arthouse cinema. 

So, yes, life is great. Life is damn near perfect. But, a little while into having mind-blowing magical sex with Patrick on every available surface in the back room, a new problem makes itself very evident on said available surfaces: activated dust, it seems, is notoriously difficult to get rid of once it's settled, even by magic. Patrick tells him it's like if a chronic nail-biter was trying to peel paint off the wall using only their hands. From what David currently understands about fairy reproduction, this is by design—the road to little baby tree fairies is not a walk in the park, so life finds a way, which means _David_ needs to find a way to terminate it. The stuff is like the MRSA of glitter, and it gets _everywhere_. He feels like he's become some kind of sexy Lady MacBeth (which, ugh, he's worked too hard to block out all memories of his mother's Shakespeare at Sea week to have them come back to haunt him now), constantly trying to scrub away the evidence of his carnal sins. _Unsex me here,_ indeed.

Here's the thing. Wings plus magic equals dust, on every conceivable surface and then some. No wings equals no dust, but Patrick keeping his wings tucked in requires focus, like he's holding down a spring with one finger—and if he loses that focus, _poof_ , magic sparkles, wings and dust getting activated and another hour of scrubbing the walls. Which isn’t an activity either of them enjoy in the slightest. Patrick, for his part, honestly seems like he's trying to get the mechanics under control, maybe doing whatever the fairy version of Sudoku is to brain-train—but it's evidently a hard science, in every sense of the term, because he's not exactly succeeding.

So between Patrick's struggle for self-control, David's inability to see Patrick absentmindedly chew on a gummy worm while doing inventory and _not_ ravish him senseless, and the great divide between what a 'quickie' means for sex versus the time needed for the _clean-up_ of said sex, things start slipping through the cracks.

"David," Patrick says, one such morning, his voice a touch rougher than usual. "You have a little, uh—" he makes some vague gesture over at David, "Just under your, um. Jaw."

"Hmm?" David intones, still casting a critical eye over the hand soaps—warm-cool color coordination or grouped by shape, that is the question—ah, there's the rub, as he pulls his hand back from beneath the right side of his jaw where it meets his neck, blue glitter glinting against his fingertips. He sighs, licking them into his mouth, delicate-sweet-velvet—short of anything else, saliva works best in a pinch—and tries pairing a moody green-blue block with a zesty yellow. No, that's not correct—and, in the process, his sweater sleeve has slipped back to reveal another glittery patch adorning his wrist. "Do we think color or shape pairing for the soaps?" he directs at Patrick, swiping his fingers across the film of fairy dust, managing to catch about half of it, and popping them back into his mouth. Only then does he realize that Patrick is very much not being helpful in this time of crisis, re: the soaps, and looks back over to the cashier desk.

Patrick is flushed, wings twitching in a way that seems far too agitated for the soaps—a way that is becoming wonderfully, intimately familiar. At David's raised eyebrow, he clears his throat. "Sorry. What were you saying? Soaps? Yeah, they look great. Great, uh, job. Keep it up." David pulls his pointer out of his mouth, and there's a quick dart of movement as Patrick's eyes flick over to it.

"The soaps _are_ great," David agrees, a smile quirking at the edge of his lips. "But sometimes, I suppose, there are better ways to clean up." He lifts his wrist up to his mouth—slow, deliberate—angling it to make sure Patrick is getting the best view, and then pushes the flat of his tongue against his skin. 

The mixture of fairy dust with his cologne is not the greatest combination—and he does feel vaguely like he's undertaking Rose Apothecary's one-man production of _Cats_ —but Patrick makes a decidedly strangled noise, wings shivering with it, so David lets his eyes slip closed and slowly, languorously licks at his wrist until he can taste clean skin again. Then he pulls his sleeve back down and goes back to sorting the soaps. "Speaking of," David continues conversationally, fighting to hide his grin as Patrick hastily pulls his wings in, clearing a distinctly blue shimmer to the air with a harried flick of his wrist, "The honey-creme liquid handwashes are doing very well, do you think we should add another box to our next order?" He frowns, and then lifts up the collar of his sweater, peering down at his chest as though he'd caught sight of something glittering out of the corner of his eye while he leaned over the products table to look at the handwashes. "Oh, dear," he tsks, watching for Patrick's reaction in his peripherals, "I _knew_ I could feel—" and he slips his fingers under the collar—

The bell rings, and a customer steps into the store—she was here last week, he recalls, possibly bought a scented candle. David, pretending to adjust his collar, politely greets her. "Hi, welcome to Rose Apothecary. Can I help you with anything today?"

Possibly Scented Candles smiles genially back. "I'm looking for some bath salts?"

"They're over there in the corner," David tells her, pointing over to the back of the store. "Patrick will be over in a second to assist you."

"David," Patrick calls out, beckoning him over. "A moment, please?" Then, in a low— _very_ low—voice, his hands white-knuckled against the dark grain of the wood, he says, "I can't leave the desk right now."

Well, with his wings tucked away, that energy had to redirect _somewhere._ David manfully refrains from preening. Mostly. "But I've already informed our valued customer that you'll be assisting her, today," he replies, affecting a look of mock disapproval. "Patrick, you _know_ how important it is to keep customer loyalty."

" _David,"_ Patrick draws out, exasperated. He looks up at David from under his eyelashes, dark-eyed and, oh, very close to David now, and then says, _firmly_ , "I need you to help me out here," and that's— _that's_ dirty pool, because now all David can think about is sliding under the desk and doing exactly that. 

"Uh, right," David replies, swallowing heavily. "Absolutely. Can do."

Patrick smiles and presses David's hand, lightly skating the pads of his fingers over David's knuckles, which is—that's not _fair_ — "Thank you, David."

David extols the virtues of bath salts to the customer on autopilot, feeling like he's just done a whole rail of them. Which he never has, even in his party days, because it's stupid dangerous, makes people lose their minds—but it's exactly how he's feeling, just, _crazy,_ itching under his own skin, from Patrick _barely even touching him_. This is in no way a sustainable mode of operation for their business, if Patrick can just drop a single, innocuous sentence and brush his hand, and—without any magic involved—turn David into some stuttering, stumbling fool. Patrick, meanwhile, manages to ring up two packets of bath salts and make polite small talk with the customer as though he isn't concealing his erection below the cashier desk, _and_ keeping a biological glitterbomb quartet on a dangerously short fuse spirited away in magic-liminal space. 

_It's a literal fucking miracle,_ David thinks, wildly, as the customer exits the store, _that we've been able to get away with this shit for so long._

"Well, David, I'm going to go grab some bath salts to restock that section," Patrick says mildly, but the heat in his gaze holds a significantly higher Scoville count. Without breaking eye contact, he cocks two fingers at the curtain behind him, sending it sparkling right open.

"And I will help you with that," David replies, quick-stepping around the desk to follow him into the back room.

David is just barely through the curtain when Patrick grabs his arms and hauls him in. "Oh, okay," David starts to say, laughing, but then Patrick's mouth is on his and Patrick's hands slide down to his ass and Patrick is grinding into him, slow and dirty. Patrick feels huge through his jeans, hot and hard, and David is rapidly catching up to him.

Patrick pulls back just enough to say, "You can't _do_ that, David." Except then he kisses David again before David can say anything.

"What?" David says, next time he pulls back far enough to get a breath.

"What?" Patrick says into his neck, biting down until David closes his eyes and tilts his head back, his hands restless and greedy on Patrick's shoulders.

"Uh," David says, trying to remember what he was asking. "You said—I can't do what?"

Patrick makes a sound of recognition into David's neck. "The—with your fingers," he mumbles. "Your mouth. You know exactly what, David, god, your _mouth_."

"Mm, you like my mouth?" David says.

"You know I do," Patrick replies, hoarse.

David does. "You like it when I put things in my mouth," he murmurs. Patrick groans, his hips moving against David in small jerks. "You like it when I put _you_ in my mouth," David continues, reckless now, and is immediately gratified by the sound Patrick makes.

"Yeah, David," Patrick says, breathily. "I like it—I like it a lot."

"Tell me," David says, his hands rubbing up and down Patrick's back. "Tell me what you like."

"Oh fuck," Patrick groans, and his thumbs slip under David's sweater, cool against overheated skin. "I like—you _know_ I like watching you taste how much I want you, David. I like watching you lick it, how much you _like_ it, god, you look like—like it tastes really good. Like you want me too."

"It does," David pants, grinding hard into Patrick now. "It does, you do, I do."

"Fuck," Patrick chokes out, and bites David, hard. "Do it, suck me, David, suck my cock, please, suck it—"

"What?" David says, startled into pulling back. Patrick rarely requests anything when it comes to sex—at least, not outright, not without David leading him to it—and while David’s very into this new development, it’s mainly that: "Here?"

Patrick blinks at him, his pupils so huge his eyes look almost black. "Yes?" he says slowly, some hesitation creeping into his voice. "Wasn't this—I thought that was where we were going with this."

"Um," David hedges, because okay, yes, it _was_ , and David had in fact been on his knees on this exact section of floor just a few days ago. But he'd been wearing Rick Owens that day, and: "These pants are McQueen." Patrick blinks again, and David elaborates, "They would be baggy forever if I got on my knees for you on this hardwood floor."

And that's when Patrick's wings pop out. 

"Uh," Patrick says. "Sorry, I just—you said—on your knees, and I couldn't—" He's wincing a little, his cheeks flushing a beautiful pink. David wants to wreck him.

"Actually," David says, significantly, momentously, poised on the precipice of another perfect plan of action. He runs his hands up Patrick's back, careful to just skirt the edge of his wings. Patrick groans and, predictably, a light haze of shimmering blue starts to drift off of him. Future David, dealing with the aftermath of this, is going to be _so annoyed_ at Present David, who can't get enough of how gorgeous, sexy, _literally_ delicious Patrick's wings are—but David's never been known to have a great relationship with himself, anyway.

"Yeah?" Patrick says breathlessly. His own hands are restless on David, stroking his hips, his sides, his shoulders.

"Can you, um," David says. "What if you, just a little, can you fly up here?"

"Fuck," Patrick mutters, and his hands spasm on David's arms. Then he starts to—it almost looks like he's growing as he rises into the air in front of him, wings flickering in the dim back room light.

"Yeah," David says hoarsely, and cups his hands under Patrick's ass, pulling him in. "Right there, yes, get your jeans open for me."

Patrick manages to get his belt open, then his jeans button, but David can't even wait for him to get the zipper; he's leaning in and licking around Patrick's fingers, inhaling his smell, half sweet and half pure male muskiness.

"Not helping, David," Patrick says, a touch of fond warmth underneath the heat, and cups one hand under David's chin—pulling him away just far enough to let Patrick fumble his zipper down, pull his shirt out of the way.

David doesn't wait for him to get his briefs down, just grips Patrick's ass and hauls him in, stumbling backwards a step until his back hits the wall, opening his mouth as wide as he can and sucking Patrick's cock through the cotton fabric.

"Let me—David, come on," Patrick pants above him, but when his fingers try and get between David's mouth and Patrick's underpants, David just wraps his tongue around Patrick's fingers too, sucks a little harder, a little wetter. "David!" Patrick says again, high, breathy laughter undercutting his frustration. David makes an interrogatory noise, letting his lips and tongue vibrate with it, and Patrick cuts himself off in a gasp.

Finally Patrick succeeds in shoving his clothes down far enough to let his cock out, springing up against his belly. David takes full advantage, digging his fingertips into Patrick's bare skin just at the top of his ass, mouthing along his hipbone. He gets a full-body shiver from Patrick, dust driving down over both of them as Patrick's cock jerks against David's cheek.

Someday David wants to tease Patrick into oblivion, really take his time, see if he can make Patrick beg for it. But patience is not actually a virtue David has much use for in the general scheme of things, and today is not the day he will develop it. He opens his mouth, takes a breath, and sucks Patrick's cock all the way down.

The noises Patrick makes are incredible, but David can barely pay attention, his ears ringing and his mouth flooding with saliva, because Patrick's cock is fucking perfect. There's something about this—about his back pressed to the wall, perfectly comfortable and stable and in _control_ , and the way the angle changes as Patrick bobs up and down a little, the way Patrick moves in response to David's hands and tongue on him. He gives up at any pretense of subtlety and sucks, hard, gets one hand under Patrick's thigh to lift his leg up and gives David even more room to get him deeper.

Patrick is swearing, choked and desperate, his fingers sliding over David's cheeks and jaw and neck. David gives him all he's got, tongue and lips and just a hint of teeth, takes Patrick into his throat and swallows and that's it, Patrick is coming. Patrick's fingers are trembling as he strokes the side of David's face, he's saying David's name over and over, his voice hoarse and broken, and David has never wanted anything as much as he wants the hot spurt of Patrick's come on the back of his tongue. 

He keeps sucking until Patrick is flinching away, oversensitive. As soon as he lets Patrick's cock slip out of his mouth, though, Patrick is sinking down until he's on the ground again, until he's pulling David's head down instead of up.

David jerks away from the press of Patrick's tongue into his mouth. "I've got—I'm all—" he says, meaning both Patrick's come and the dust that he can see coating both of them, that he can taste at the corners of his mouth.

"You taste amazing," Patrick says, as hoarse as if he'd been the one with a cock down his throat. "It tastes—I love it. You taste so good, David, let me—"

Patrick yanks their mouths together and this time David lets him, lets Patrick's tongue in and lets himself taste what Patrick's tasting, fairy dust and come, salty umami cutting the sweetness. Patrick's hands are fumbling at David's waistband now, and he's so hard, he can't wait, he wants Patrick so badly, anything Patrick will give him—

Then the traitorous part of David's brain that gave him this terrible idea to start his own business in the retail industry and not, say, _any other job_ that wouldn't require him to interface with the general public, registers the front door bell jingle. 

"Oh fuck _off,_ " David hisses, dropping his head back in frustration. And then, to add insult to injury— _ding ding ding!_ comes a familiar voice from the store proper, in a sardonic and entirely unnecessary impression of the bell. 

"Shit," Patrick mumbles into David's neck. He takes one steadying breath, then pulls away, tucking himself away and straightening out his crinkled shirt with quick, efficient movements. "Okay, let me, I can—" He twists his wrist, magic twinkling through his fingertips, ostensibly flashing the dust off of David's face, gripping his jaw and angling it to inspect for any missed spots—which, while very, very welcome, is not _helpful_ for David's current situation—then murmurs another _okay_ , pulls David in for a final kiss—quick, maybe, but no less dirty—and then flashes out of the back room, all in under a minute. Which is _also_ not helpful, because competent, assured Patrick is also an exceedingly, knees-weakeningly hot version of Patrick. Along with, well. Most other iterations of Patrick. All of which is _not helpful._

David sighs, giving his hair a brief finger-comb and then tugging irritably at his sweater—thankfully, long enough to hide just how rudely they'd been interrupted—before twitching the curtain open. "...so we, uh—hey," Patrick is saying, as David steps out into the store, and into front-row seating for Stevie's wicked half-smile and deeply knowing gaze. 

"Hey, Stevie," David says, casual as you please and fucking _nailing_ it, and then—feeling a weird urge to try and protect his and Patrick's privacy (or lack thereof)—continues, "Patrick and I were just fixing a lightbulb in the back."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Patrick's wings twitch. Which, at this point, is as obvious as if Patrick was wincing with his actual face. They've still got a healthy coating of dust, but they're definitely more translucent than usual as they move through the light—which, presumably, would only be obvious to another fairy. Or another human who has fucked a fairy at some point. In which case, if David has to be stuck between a rock and a still-very-hard place, Stevie is at least a lesser evil to Alexis.

"Really? Hmm, seems kind of dark in there," Stevie notes, peering over David's shoulder, and, _shit_ , did he forget to close the curtain fully, the floor must be a fucking disco rink at this point—but, no, a quick glance reaffirms that trusty curtain is firmly protecting their den of iniquity. "Ooh, what's that?" Stevie continues, as he flicks his gaze back to her.

"What's what?" David asks, guardedly.

Stevie taps at her own neck. "You've got a little—is that a temporary tattoo? Little patch of sparkle-tinted moisturizer?" She smirks. "Looks like fairy dust, actually."

Patrick now _does_ make a face, pinching at the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Okay," David replies, harried, rubbing at the side of his throat—trust Patrick to miss the exact spot that started this whole mess, almost as if—as if he wanted David to be marked on _purpose_ , which—nope, no, _not helpful_ , " _Okay_ ," he repeats, clearing his throat, "So maybe it's pretty cramped in the back, and sometimes you might lightly jostle your fairy business partner because it's _hard_ fixing a lightbulb in such close quarters—"

"Oh, I'm sure it's _very hard_ ," Stevie cuts in, her smirk growing ever wider. "Desperate times, huh?"

"Trying times," Patrick corrects, evidently giving up on pretense. He quirks an apologetic smile at David, gently pressing his thumb to his neck to swipe away the rest. "Nothing about this is desperate."

 _Speak for yourself,_ David thinks, trying not to shiver at the sensation of Patrick's thumb, sweeping warm and sure at his pulse-point. "It's just that, there's a lot of people at the motel," David explains, his voice not quite as steady as he'd like it to be, "And Patrick's apartment literally isn't even in this plane of reality, so there's really just been zero privacy."

Patrick slides his hand off David's neck, but lets it linger at his shoulder. "There _is_ a very nice hiking trail, just out of—"

" _No,_ " David says, firmly, folding his arms across his chest. "I appreciate that the woods hold a very deep and sexy place within your fairy sensibilities, but I draw the line at exposing my bare skin to the biblical plague of insects that will hawk my pound of flesh like it's an open market."

"Didn't you once tell me that you're _'one with nature'?"_ Stevie asks, wickedly smug. "David, I am beginning to doubt your commitment to sparkle motion."

"Let me ring that up for you, Stevie," Patrick interrupts, amused, before David can formulate some kind of clever retort. He notices, belatedly, the bag of strawberries in front of her—wonder upon wonders, she actually came into this store to _buy something._

"Oh, there's one more thing," Stevie says, and sets a scented candle down on the desk. A scented candle that should definitely not be covered, _liberally,_ in sparkling, glittery blue. "You know, I wasn't really sold on the candles when I was here the other day, but I'm digging the new designs. Really seems like you put in a _personal_ touch, here."

"Okay, we _really_ can't keep doing this here," Patrick says, after a beat, in which they both stare, in various states of mortification, at the candle. God, little patches on the side of the table or tucked, glittering, in a corner are fine, accidentally brushed from an absent hand, but _this_ is—David doesn't know how that amount of dust could've gotten through the plastic sheeting and into the box of candles stored in the back room, let alone how they missed it when restocking the floor. _Well, no, that's a lie,_ he thinks, looking sidelong at Patrick, _I know exactly how._ Then his brain directs him, suddenly, viscerally, to Possibly Scented Candles lady, and whether that polite smile held hidden, _knowing_ depths.

"Okay, well, _one of us_ can basically teleport himself to anywhere in the world. So let's, I don't know, magic ourselves to the Maldives," David pitches. "Actually, no, it's the rainy season, we'll have to go southern hemisphere—Tahiti. Definitely, sex vacation in Tahiti."

"We've been through this," Patrick says, wearily. "I'm pretty sure you will die."

"Yes, but _how_ sure," David asks, weighing risk versus reward.

Patrick shoots him an incredulous look. "Pretty sure!"

"Okay, so let's say that's Plan B, then." 

"If you want, I'm happy to offer my place for a night," Stevie pipes up. "Well, not _tonight,_ " she amends. "But like, Saturday, maybe. If you're interested."

David and Patrick both turn to regard her. "Okay, what's the catch? Where will you be?" David asks, immediately suspicious of this alleged altruism, just as Patrick says, "You do realize your entire apartment is going to end up like this candle, right?"

"No catch!" Stevie says, her eyes wide. "If you must know, work's been really stressful, so I'm looking to have a little 'me time' at a spa in Elmdale," Stevie replies. "And, since my landlord only answers my emails when he's chasing me for rent, I feel like it would be nice to come back, relaxed and well-rested, to a fresh coat of paint on my walls."

And _there_ it is. "So there's a bit of a catch," David confirms—but Patrick, hand now pressed warm and possessive on David's lower back, says, "We'll take it."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* **Step 5:** *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ **  
Communication is Key (To Your Heart)**

Jocelyn's friend Harmony, a flower child whose hippie van broke down on the way out of the 60's and stranded her in that decade forever, makes her own Himalayan salt lamps. "I can't decide whether it's tacky, or, like, crystal hippie chic," David muses to Patrick, examining the sample lamp he's been given in a lull before they close for the night. "I need a second opinion, here. Yay or nay?"

"A second opinion, huh?" Patrick says, giving him high eyebrows and a smirk from his usual perch atop the desk, currently eating Nutella out of the jar (thankfully, this time, with a spoon). "Gosh, it must be my lucky day."

"Okay, I don't know what you're insinuating here, but I don't care for it," David replies, bringing the salt lamp over to the register. There's a socket on the back wall, and he uncoils the cord and plugs it in. "Allegedly, it does this glowy thing, so let me see if I can—aha, there we go."

"Hmm, no," Patrick says immediately. When David stands back up, he's set the Nutella aside and is making a face of mild distaste at the now-glowy salt lamp—which, totally understandable, it probably _does_ tip over the line into tacky—but what's curious is the way his wings have flattened down tight against his body, like the way a cat's ears might draw back when it feels threatened. And, like a cat presented with a cucumber, Patrick _does not like this lamp._

"Would you like to elaborate on that?" David asks, _very_ curious as to what has inspired this particular reaction.

"It's, ah—charged salt," Patrick says, after a moment. "Messes with my magic. Like, uh, putting a magnet on a laptop? All fuzzy and prickly, and, ugh—yeah, it's a hard no from me."

Charged salt. Why does that sound familiar? "Alright, well, let's keep it in the back until you get the chance to give Harmony our verdict." David says, vaguely, crouching down to pull out the plug, trying to remember— _that's_ it, it was Rachel, unable to flash into his room at the motel, curious about whether the doorframe was lined with _witchiron_ or a _charged salt lick_ to keep her out.

Patrick's uncharacteristically quiet for long enough that David actually looks up, frowning. "So," Patrick says. He looks thoughtful. "Is that something that you want? 'Cause, you know, there's definitely better ways to go about this, if you do." 

Trust Patrick to worry about the stellar reputation he's built in this town getting a few more dents knocked into it. Ronnie's really done a number on him. "Well, you made the call, so it's only fair that you have to be the bearer of the bad news."

"No, I mean—bringing something like that—" Patrick tilts his head over at the salt lamp, now placed back on the desk, "—into our whole, uh, back room situation." 

David feels like he's missing something here. "I—where else would we store it? We can't have it out on the floor if we're not going to add it to our stock." He pauses, considering. "Mm, though we'll have to make sure it doesn't pick up any dust that's lurking about, because I don't know about you but I am still _deeply_ haunted by that scented candle." 

"Right," Patrick says, huffing out a quick laugh. "Storage, right, that's also—that's what I meant." He slides off of the desk and into David's space, bracketing his hands at David's hips. "Hey, so, seeing as it's my lucky day, do you want to _get lucky_ tonight?"

"You know nothing turns me on more than your brave attempts at comedy," David replies, twining his arms around Patrick's shoulders. "Unfortunately, I'm going to have to take a raincheck? Alexis is, allegedly, pregnant, and I think my family is about to stage some kind of intervention, so."

"Okay, no, that's fine, I completely understand," Patrick says. He whistles, long and low. "Man, that's big for Alexis. Human style, especially, I have not heard good things about that whole, ah, process. How is she feeling about it?"

"Oh, I don't know, I haven't spoken to her," David replies breezily. "But it's important that I witness all the _great_ life choices being made there, and revel in the fact that, for once, _my_ choices aren't the ones being put on trial." He rubs across Patrick's shoulders apologetically. "You know I would, I really, _really_ would, but, I just don't have time to do that _and_ help with the clean-up tonight."

A beat. "Right," Patrick says, again. That thoughtful look is back. "Well, hey, that's no problem, do what you need to do. We're going to Stevie's this weekend, anyway, so that's something." He disengages, reaching past David for the salt lamp. "Here, I'll take that out back if you need to head out."

"Are you sure that's—you're okay handling that?" David asks. "With, like, your magic. I mean, I was always planning on coming with you to return this to Harmony, I wasn't going to make you _carry_ the thing, just the burden of breaking that sweet old lady's heart."

"It's fine," Patrick says, smiling. "It's not charged." He waggles the cord in demonstration, then snags David's jawline with his spare hand. "Here's something for the road," he murmurs, pulling him in close, and proceeds to deliver the kind of kiss that really makes David question his decision to go home tonight, post-coital wall-scrubbing be damned.

David _doubly_ regrets it when it turns out that Alexis _isn't_ pregnant at all, thanks to some kind of pregnancy-test bathroom-bin mixup or whatever (he doesn't particularly care for the details, but does wonder if they shouldn't upcycle that salt lamp as a gift for Jocelyn's future baby shower). And between a surge of customers at the store (Scented Candles Lady evidently really liked those bath salts, and told one or twenty of her friends), Patrick's baseball troupe, and having to prep for a last-minute rendition of The Number with his mother for a fundraiser for asbestos—which David really thought they needed _less_ of, not more—he does not, in fact, get another chance to 'get lucky' that week. 

At least, until their pre-planned rendezvous at Stevie's rolls around, which also happens to bring one of the biggest surprises of the week, Alexis' faux pregnancy scare notwithstanding: right before they close, Patrick receives a _package._

"Okay, since when does Amazon come to _you?_ " David asks, curious, as Patrick signs for the delivery. "Because I thought the whole point of our unique opportunity as a business to minimize the cost, and, uh, more importantly, the _extensive_ carbon footprint of postal services, is for you—for _us_ to get our goods straight from the source." A thought occurs to him. "Wait, is this what you've been all Rapunzel-at-the-window about this entire week?" On Thursday, David had to yell out Patrick's name _three times_ before he could drag his attention away from the deeply fascinating view of the empty street outside of the store.

"Tragically, there was no way I could let down my hair for this particular package," Patrick deadpans. "Anyway, we'd better get going if we're gonna get to Stevie's by six."

"No, okay, Stevie can hold off on her kiddie pool version of a deep tissue massage at Elmdale's premium wellness resort for another five minutes," David says, trying to wheedle the package out of Patrick's grasp. "Is this something we're sampling for the store? Oh my god, tell me you didn't get the Drunk Elephant Deluxe sampler kit." 

"Okay," Patrick replies, amused, relenting to David's grabby hands. "I didn't get the Drunk Elephant Deluxe sampler kit."

"Where is the—thank you," David mutters, as Patrick flashes in their boxcutter from the back room and hands it over. He slices through the tape, popping open the flaps, and is immediately confronted by the invoice—which David almost flicks away, until his eyes catch on the number printed there. Which he then has to read, _again_ , to make sure he hasn't had some kind of minor stroke. "Oh my _god_ , is that—did they print the right number of zeroes? Is that dot in the right place? I really feel like it's wandered _far_ too off to the right and we really need to, just, reign it back in."

Patrick quirks a smile. "While a good description of the current global political climate, in this case I can confirm that is the correct number."

"Okay, well, you should _not_ have entrusted that nice Amazon delivery man with this—are these bracelets?" David picks out one of the plain metal bands from its nest of packing peanuts, eyeing it curiously. No, actually, not so plain—the blue-grey metal is flecked with iridescent patches that seem to grow deeper and more vibrant in the light. It reminds him of the opal he used to have, his only souvenir of that one time he flew all the way out to Australia because his ex-best friend had promised to set him up on a date with rockstar Vance Joy—only to be greeted at the boutique Melbournian cafe by amateur geologist Lance Roy, an apparent 'rock star' in the online precious mineraloid community. "At a minimum, this should've been in a locked briefcase handcuffed to, like, an ex-cop with a dark past and nothing to live for but the next job," David continues, "Unless this lack of security was meant to cut down the bill, because—and I can't believe _I'm_ the one saying this—we _cannot_ afford this, Patrick."

"'We', huh?" Patrick says impishly, taking back the box, and trust him to pick _that_ word out of the lineup David has provided. "No, David, this was from my own funds. Offloaded all of my stock in Intensi-Fi for them."

"Intensi-Fi?" David asks. "Like, those solar-powered WiFi hotspots?"

"That's the one," Patrick replies, approvingly. "Since I cut myself off from the Treaty stipend for a steady job in boutique retail with my _very_ dashing human business partner, I figured I'd start putting those paychecks to good use. Timing was right, I got in on the IPO, it's been a pretty solid investment." He holds the door open for David and then goes to lock up, fumbling a little with the keys and the box, tucked under one arm. "You know, there's a lot of good stuff out there, David, you should start thinking of opportunities to invest any money you're not putting back into the store. I actually have a few ideas—"

Which is how David ends up engaged in a lively conversation about socially responsible investing that is still in full swing by the time they get to Stevie's building, prompting a dry _if this is what you guys consider foreplay, my apartment is in very safe hands_ from Stevie herself as she lets them in. And so it isn't until Patrick sets the box down on the kitchen counter that David suddenly remembers he never actually asked what the weird, ultra-expensive bracelets were _for._ But, as soon as he opens his mouth—

"Hey, pony, are you ready to go?" comes a voice from the doorway. _Jake's_ voice. _Jake_ is here, here in this apartment, his ex-sort-of-boyfriend Jake is here with his current—with Patrick, who is also here, with David and David's ex-sort-of-boyfriend and David's ex-sort-of-girlfriend who have obviously not exed _each other_ all within a lethal blast radius wherein ground zero is Stevie's kitchenette.

"What are you doing?" Stevie hisses, evidently trying to salvage what is clearly an unsalvageable situation. "I said I'd meet you outside!"

"I thought I'd help you with your bags," Jake says, coming into view, tall and effortlessly handsome as ever. " _David_ ," he then says, appreciatively. "It's been a while," and kisses him, like, _right on the mouth_. 

David—well, he doesn't _not_ reciprocate, because that would be impolite, but he does hopefully make his lack of interest apparent to Patrick by hastily retreating behind him, all hands on deck—the deck, in this instance, being Patrick's shoulders and surrounding sweater territories. He glares daggers at Stevie over said shoulders, who looks like she wants to pull the pin out of this timebomb herself and end it all right here and now.

"And _Patrick_ ," Jake continues, leaning over, and giving Patrick _that same kiss_. David hears that pin drop inside his _own_ head, his jaw dropping like it's been blown the fuck open. "Heard you were back in town, it's great to see you again. You both look great."

"Ah, likewise," Patrick says, politely. Getting behind him was a bad idea, because now David can't see his face. What the _fuck_ is happening? "So… you're taking Stevie to the spa tonight, then?"

"The spa?" Jake asks, slinging an arm around Stevie. "Pony, you didn't tell me we were saddling up to get pampered on the town for date night, I would've packed the rings."

"No, we're still, uh, going out to the woods," Stevie says, looking quickly from David to Patrick. "Patrick must have gotten our plans mixed up with someone else's. So we're just gonna—"

"Just galloping around the woods, huh?" David manages, finally finding his voice. "With your _pony_. So I take it you two are still—"

"Seeing each other, yes," Stevie confirms with a wince.

Jake shrugs, easy. He's his own nuclear bunker. The smoke could clear after the apocalypse, only him and the roaches left alive, and Jake would somehow find a way to repopulate the Earth. "After we all broke up, Stevie came over to end things officially, and it just didn't stick, so." 

"Speaking of sticking, we really don't need to stick around," Stevie says, quickly. "We should, you know, leave these two lovebirds—"

"Unless, either of you want to come along?" Jake asks.

"Nope!" David says, quickly, as Patrick goes, a beat behind him, "No, thank you, I think we're good here."

"You do you," Jake replies, as Stevie drags him out of the apartment.

David watches the door close behind them with relief. And a little bit of trepidation. Okay, maybe more than a little. He takes a deep breath, and turns to look at Patrick.

"So _Jake_ was the carpenter you dated, then," Patrick says, thoughtfully. "Huh. I don't know why I didn't put it together earlier. Maybe because he always liked to refer to himself as a 'woodworker,' for reasons I'm sure you can guess, knowing Jake."

Patrick is taking this extremely in stride, like he's the fucking Olympic gold medalist of walking off this little revelation. _Don't be crazy don't be crazy don't be crazy,_ the voice in his head says urgently. _You finally have a good thing going, don't fuck it up, you can just leave it—_ "So, I know you're on a first name-and-occasional-cherry-pie-basis with basically the entire town, but you seem— _particularly_ familiar with Jake," David says, very casually, no big deal, everything is _fine_. "Is there a, um, story there that you would like to share with the class?"

Patrick grins, slyly. "Oh, a gentlefairy doesn't kiss and tell." He moves forward, placing his hands on David's hips, seemingly unaware of the desperate flips David's stomach is doing right above the press of his fingers. "Unless, of course, you're willing to give me all the gory details on how your apparent throuple with him and Stevie played out, because it seems like that's a far more interesting item for show-and-tell."

Too casual. David is _too_ _good_ at selling casual, curse his theatre-focused formative education institution. David wishes he could pick up the broken pieces of Patrick's magic Motorola RAZR and pour out his roiling vat of feelings into it for Patrick to dissect rather than having to now extract _words_ from them and risk fucking this all up. "It's just that you told me, very sincerely—" _don't be crazy, don't be crazy,_ "—that you'd never been with a human before me. So now I'm wondering if that was just you telling me something you thought I wanted to hear, in the moment, or maybe you just got some kind of magical concussion and forgot about Jake altogether until just now, or honestly, I would welcome _any_ other explanation, so."

"Ah," Patrick says, delicately, the grin quickly dropping off his face. He draws back, but takes David's hands as he does, interlacing their fingers. His gaze, at least, is direct and open—but then again, guilt isn't really something David's previous partners tended to put on display when caught in a lie. "David, I was unequivocally, one hundred percent honest when I told you that you were the first human I slept with. And to that, I'll add that you are also the first human I have dated. I promise you, for what it's worth, I would never lie to you about—well, anything, but _especially_ not something like that. Okay?" 

That's definitely a line he's heard before. But it's _Patrick_. Patrick isn't like all of his asshole exes, he's a _good_ person—well, a good fairy. "Okay," David replies, slowly.

The look on Patrick's face shows he's clearly not buying into any sense of that 'okay.' "In the interest of full disclosure, though," he says, tone still very careful, "you're not the first human I've made out with. Jake does have that dubious honour." He pauses for a moment, clearing his throat. "Rather, uh, drunkenly. At Esmerelda West's hoedown for the relaunch of her cuniculture venture at West Farms. It was—look, you know I don't usually take on animal contracts, because of my allergies, but I owed her a favor from another case—and I had just finished up my contract, and it would've been rude to decline the invitation, and Jake was there because he's her nephew—and he was very—I mean, his abs were very—but that's _not_ the point—" 

Twitchy Patrick, last seen that night at the Auberge, has made his grand return. And if there's anything that could convince David of his honesty, it's confident, self-assured Patrick losing his entire cool and letting his mouth run a mile-a-minute, like—well, like _David._ It makes David want to smile.

"And, yes, we'd met a few times previously," Patrick is saying. "Because he was building the hutches, and protecting me from the rabbits, who _really_ like to cuddle—the rabbits, not him, I didn't—look, he obviously propositioned me one or twenty times, because it's _Jake_ , but I keep it professional while I'm on assignment, so, point is, it's ancient history, I have zero interest in repeating it, and—is that a good face? Is that a—you just, you haven't said anything, but I can go into more detail, if you—"

"So, just to be clear," David says, not even attempting to hide the grin that's starting to form—caused, in equal parts, by the giddy rush of relief _and_ the delightful image Patrick has provided for him, filling up all the warm spaces in his mind, "You got drunk, and made out with Jake, at a _hoedown_."

"Essie's an old-school Gordie Tapp fan," Patrick replies, the same relief washing over his face and smoothing out the adorable crease between his brows. "And also distills her own gin out of a water tank. You want to know more?"

"I'm just trying to picture you," David says, smirking, "In cowboy boots, with those little spurs—" Patrick, grinning, pushes into his space, kissing at his neck, hot and needy, "—uh, the little, with like a ten gallon— _nghh—_ um, hat, oh my god, yes, _there_ ," as Patrick finds that spot right under his jaw and _bites_ , and David gasps, his head falling back, the threads in his brain all unraveling. "With the—with the, um. What was I saying, again?"

"I think you were saying that, since we only have this room for one night, we should really make the most of it," Patrick murmurs into his skin, all warm breath and very good vibrations. "Save a horse, ride a cowboy, right?" Then he commits the terrible, unspeakable crime—second only to that joke—of moving _away_ from David and back to the kitchen counter for some unknowable—no, okay, he's opening the box, which David had briefly forgotten about with all of the, well, _everything_ that just transpired.

"Okay, so _what_ are these?" David asks, as Patrick pulls the bracelet-cuff-things out. "As much as I love a statement accessory, we're not exactly heading out to the Met Gala tonight."

"These are witchiron," Patrick says, handing them over to David. "Cuffs. It's a, uh—some fairies use them for sex."

"Isn't that one of those things that, like, dampens magic?" David asks, turning them over in his hands. "Like the charged salt thing?" He has another moment of appreciation for how the flecks in the silvery-blue metal catch the light.

"Not quite the same," Patrick clarifies. "Charged salt is more, uh, rough? Its effects are very uncomfortable. But hey, look at you, acing fairy biology. You'll be getting that PhD in no time."

"Well, there's really only one D I'm currently interested in getting," David replies, regretting it instantly. " _Wow,_ I hate that I just said that, so let's move _right_ along: how do they work? Are they like—a cock ring for your wings?"

Patrick huffs out a laugh, and moves to the bed, patting the space beside him. "Again, not quite the same. They should, in theory, cut off my magic cleanly, the same way as being at the motel does."

A little red flag _pings_ into life in the back of David's head. "Okay, but you don't like hanging out at the motel," he replies, frowning, as he sits down next to Patrick. "Which is an arrangement I'm generally happy with, since it keeps you a healthy distance away from the rest of my family, but bringing that experience into the bedroom doesn't feel like it's going to, um, _spark joy,_ so to speak. And—hold on," he says, another thought occurring to him, two red flags now sandwiching a beachfront. "Did you just say _in theory_? As in, you're trying these, for the first time, tonight?"

"I—yes, Amazon Prime does leave a lot to be desired for rural customers, " Patrick replies. "But I'm not exactly a pioneer here, David, there's a niche, uh, community—anyway," and then he clasps David's arms gently, like he's trying to reassure _him._ "I mean, we're trying new things, right? We're making it work. It's part of the process. You know how much I love a process."

"You do love a process," David admits.

"And, this way, we won't have to clean up Stevie's apartment," Patrick continues, drawing his thumbs softly over the knit at David's forearms. "No magic, no activated dust, no painting the walls, just regular human sex. It's going to be fine, really. And if we're not into it, we can stop at any time. Alright?"

"Okay, aren't I meant to be telling _you_ this?" David mutters. 

Patrick laughs, and leans in to kiss him, soft and sweet. As he pulls back, he offers David his arms, palms up, pale wrists peeking out from the sleeves of his sweater. "Let's have human sex, on this human bed, and then—I guess, launder the sheets? Or whatever your process is."

"I think we can table the laundry until tomorrow," David replies. "One on each wrist?" Patrick gives him a nod of confirmation, so David continues: "Safeword is 'red', okay?" He holds Patrick's gaze until he nods, again—David may have not partaken in _magical_ sensory deprivation play before, but it's not his first foray into the human kind, and this is the _minimum_ they've got to establish before jumping into this. "Promise me you'll use it," he presses, as he finds the seams, gossamer thin, and splits the cuffs along them. "At any point you feel uncomfortable, or if you just need a break, anything."

"Thank you, David," Patrick says, softly. His mouth curls up at the edges. "Though, talking about Taylor Swift's best album might just get me _more_ in the mood."

"Hm, I don't recall saying _1989_ just then," David replies, airily, fighting back his own smile. He snaps the metal over Patrick's wrists, just below the cuffs of his sweater—they fit perfectly, glittering slightly against his pale skin—and he places a kiss at each wrist for good measure. Patrick shivers, a little. "How does it feel?"

"Physically, a little tinglier than I expected? I didn't really think metal would itch." Patrick flexes his wrists, the cuffs catching the light. "But the main thing is like, it's—okay, so, imagine you're in a glass box. As in, you're in a regular room, but inside that room, you're in a glass box."

"Following so far," David says, slowly. "I think."

"So, everything _looks_ the same, but as soon as you try to try to walk forward, or, reach for something outside that box, _bam—_ wall," Patrick explains, miming a cube in the air around him for emphasis. "Wall, wall, wall, on every side. Almost claustrophobic, if you really start thinking about it. Like you don't have an easy exit, anymore. So you feel—I don't know, vulnerable, I guess." 

David recalls, suddenly, how Rachel had refused to enter their room at the motel until she had flashed in a taser—the thought sending a stiff breeze through that pair of flags in the back of his mind. "It does help that the thought of giving up control to you is doing a lot of things for me," Patrick is saying, pulling back his focus. " _Very_ effective distraction. But, honestly, it only really bothers me if I'm in that box without someone I trust." He smiles, warmly. "And I trust you, David." 

Trust. Patrick allowing him to touch his wings. Patrick handing over the power, to _him_ , to cut off his magic. It's terrifying. It's _thrilling_. It fills David with something deeper than want—something equally terrifying and thrilling in turns. Something he doesn't want to address, even in the most secret corners of his heart, which is currently hammering warmth throughout his body like Hurricane Sandy sweeping through Jersey Shore, no flags left to fly—so David kisses Patrick instead, pulling him down against him onto the bed.

It's sweet, almost chaste, hands over clothes and the barest sweep of tongues. They make out until David's lips are tingling and David wonders hazily why Patrick's holding back, until he realizes—yes, usually their clothes are coming off by now, but that's because Patrick is usually _magicking_ their clothes off by now. So, probably, David should be taking the lead here. He gets his hands under Patrick's sweater and Patrick makes a pleased sound into his mouth, so that's good. He eases his hands up Patrick's back, careful of Patrick's wings—which aren't there, because Patrick's wings aren't out, and they won't _be_ popping out any time soon, because Patrick doesn't have any magic, and actually this is a little weird now. 

But also sexy. Patrick's back is very smooth, muscles shifting as David spreads his hands as wide as they'll reach, covering the span of Patrick's shoulders in a way he hasn't been able to do before. It's thrilling, touching so much of Patrick all at once, nothing in the way, even if it’s also oddly jarring. David leans in to bite at his favorite spot on Patrick's jaw, and it tastes—wrong. It takes him a second to realize it's not wrong, exactly—he’s just tasting regular, clean skin, without the now-familiar sweetness he associates with kissing and sex and _Patrick_ edging his tongue. But Patrick makes another good noise, and pulls back enough to grab the hem of his sweater and pull it over his own head. 

David takes a moment to eye him appreciatively. His skin is gorgeous, picking up a beautiful sex flush all the way down his neck to his chest. He's actually very flushed, pink streaking down his shoulders, he's looking really— 

" _Red,_ " David hisses, "Red, oh my god, Patrick," grabbing for Patrick's wrists, as Patrick goes from kiss-dazed to alert to horrified in the span of a second upon seeing the very angry-looking hives advancing up his forearms. 

"Holy shit," Patrick breathes, as David manages to pop one cuff off and throw it somewhere across the room, furious red ringing the skin beneath it. "I think I might be—" David clicks open the second cuff, and Patrick disappears into a cloud of sparkles, tickling at David's face. A _thud_ resounds from somewhere behind him, a groan, and—as David makes his way over to the bathroom—the unmistakable sound of the contents of one's stomach finding a new home in the toilet bowl. "Allergic," Patrick finishes, weakly, limbs akimbo on the bathroom floor, slumped against Stevie's toilet. "Just my luck, huh?"

"Cats, dogs, _anti-magic metallic alloys_ , what are you _not_ allergic to?" David asks, about a half-step down from frantic. Cheap jewelry can give some people a rash, but not like _this_ , this is like a nickel allergy on _steroids_.

"I think, at this point, you're gonna find out at the same time I do," Patrick replies. He goes a little green and pulls himself over the bowl for another round, bringing his newly liberated wings into view—limp, trembly, is it just David or does the blue look dulled? 

David flails, a little, looking from Patrick to the door and then back. "Oh my god, okay, what are we—what do we do, Patrick, tell me what we need to do."

"It's fine, it's not that bad," Patrick replies, and then immediately undercuts himself with another dry heave. "Okay, maybe it's a little bad," he rasps, echoing oddly against the ceramic.

"Patrick, I really need you to give me some direction here," David repeats firmly.

Patrick groans. "Augh. Okay. Call Rachel."

David books it out of the bathroom, casting around for Patrick's phone, which must have slid out of his pockets when they were—okay, there it is, one corner peeking out from under a fold in the rumpled coverlet. Patrick's lockscreen is a selfie of the two of them out at Elmdale's finest restaurant—i.e., an establishment that is _just_ highbrow enough to not make the cut for Guy Fieri's _Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives_ , but it's on thin ice—where he had basically ambushed David halfway through a mouthful of linguini, resulting in a look that could generously be described as 'hamster in a human suit'. Patrick, on the other hand, with his shit-eating grin that belies the fact that this was an intentional crime, no matter how he protests his innocence, looks Michelin-star delicious. David hates that picture. He'd pose for another thirty of them if it meant the Patrick in the bathroom right now could trade places with the Patrick in that restaurant. "Call Rachel," he tells Siri, tapping his feet anxiously while he awaits the pickup.

Rachel's voice is warm above the cacophony in the background of the call, which sounds like a group of people are fighting each other with musical instruments and someone just got full nelson facebusted into a drumset (at least, as far as the wrestling terminology David learned during his brief fling with Ronda Rousey checks out). _"Hey, Blue. How's that human phone of yours treating you? I heard the battery doesn't even last a whole day."_

David realizes, suddenly and viscerally, that he has no idea how to broach this subject. "Rachel, it's David, there's been a bit of a—Patrick is, um—see, the thing is, we've been trying to—"

 _"David. Form a thought."_

"We were trying to use witchiron cuffs for sex and we think he's allergic," David blurts out. "And not in a like, cute Claritin commercial way, like _very_ allergic, so any ideas on how to deal with this whole situation would be greatly appreciated."

 _"Oh my god, he's an idiot."_ The background noise suddenly cuts out in a quick whine of static, replaced by—is that birdsong? Or some kind of fluted, soothing chiming. Rachel must have flashed somewhere. _"Why in the Realm or Earth would he willingly do that to himself?"_

"We're at this friend's apartment for the night," David tries to explain. "And the thing with the, um, the activated wing dust is that it's _very_ difficult to get rid of once it's settled, since you can't like, magic it away, and cleaning it up is pretty labor-intensive, so Patrick thought—"

 _"You don't have to humansplain fairy biology to me, David."_ Another static burst, and the sound of rushing water fills David's ear. _"But I don't see why this is such a problem for you guys to the point that Patrick feels the need to_ cut off his magic _just so you can bone. You know plants soak it all up, right? Fairy Reproductive Bio 101. Just go do it in a forest. I mean, you literally live right next to one, this is a no-brainer."_

"This isn't about—sex in the woods, however magical that experience may be, is _not_ an avenue that I am willing to entertain," David replies, firmly. "One brush with poison ivy at the Goop Wilderness Wellness Weekend retreat is enough flora trauma for a lifetime." He takes a quick breath. "Although, now I think about it, that _may_ have been the same trip Gwyneth's assistant contracted Lyme disease, but, _point is_ , Patrick can't hold in his wings when we're, uh—basically, this was something we were trying, okay? And now he needs your help, so if there's anything—"

 _"Seems like you and Red Bull have that in common."_ David frowns at the doorway, trying to figure out what she could mean by— _"You know. Gives him wiiiings."_

David barely resists the urge to put his head through the wall. "Oh my _god._ "

 _"I know, I know, low-hanging fruit, yadda yadda. Speaking of which, I think I can get him—yep, okay, hold please."_ There's a scuffling sound, a low murmur of voices. David peers into the bathroom—Patrick gazes blearily back at him, blotchy and miserable, huddled against the toilet bowl. He's starting to look a little shivery, so David ducks back out and goes to retrieve his sweater from the bedroom.

"Everything okay?" Patrick croaks, as David wedges the phone between his ear and shoulder and helps Patrick get the sweater back on. 

"Yes, yep, super-duper!" David replies, and winces internally, because that absolutely missed reassuring by a fucking _mile_. "Rachel's on the case."

Patrick places an unsteady hand on David's shoulder. "David. Hey. It's going to be okay."

"No, _you're_ going to be okay," David shoots back, without thinking. " _You_ are the one who's going to be okay, okay? Okay." 

"Okay," Patrick replies, softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners like he's trying not to laugh, and then, suddenly, Rachel's back in David's ear. 

_"Right. I have a solution. Or, some kind of—I have something. Where are you, right now?"_

David gives Patrick what he hopes is a much less manic smile, pointing to the phone, mouthing _Rachel_ , which—okay, of course Patrick knows it's Rachel. "I'm—we're at Stevie's place."

Rachel heaves a gusty sigh that David can almost _feel_ through the phone line. _"Wow, okay, scratch that, you're both idiots. You really are perfect for each other."_

"I will be _right back_ ," David tells Patrick nice and soothingly, briefly covering the receiver, and awkwardly scrambles out of Stevie's ridiculously tiny bathroom. "Well, it has been _really_ hard to find privacy lately," David hisses, once he's pretty sure he's out of earshot, "So, given that I've just told you I don't feel comfortable getting naked in a forest, I really don't see what the problem is with accepting what I _now_ know is a guilt-favor from a friend but either way is an actual room, with a lockable door, because, honestly? I am— _we_ are trying to make the best of our very limited options, so I really don't need this kind of judgement when my boyfriend is _literally dying_ in my friend's bathroom—"

Rachel cuts him off. _"Holy shit, David, shut up. I don't care about any of that, I just don't know who 'Stevie' is. Give me an_ address _."_

David blinks at the wall for a few moments. "Right. Yes. That—okay, that makes sense." He barely finishes rattling off the address when there's a sharp rap at the front door.

"You both better be dressed," comes Rachel's muffled voice from the other side. David pulls the door open to a very different Rachel than he remembers—no more reluctant tooth fairy in a pretty sundress, she's looking rocker chic in a dark tank atop ripped jeans and burnt orange Doc Martens, copper hair wild and untamed, sporting jet-black lipstick and eyes streaked in fire. She's also carrying a very large, oddly shaped purple fruit—kind of like if two very large yams had an even larger, very knobbly baby. 

"Ugh, I can feel them from here," she says, wrinkling her nose as her eyes snap directly to the corner David had hurled the cuffs into, her autumn-orange wings drawing down and close to her body. "You have to stop inviting me into rooms with anti-magic hanging around, David. First that cursed motel, now this? It's not very punk rock of you." She glances around. "Though, at least those dumb things won't be a permanent fixture of this apartment. Thank you for gifting it to me, by the way. Super generous, I really appreciate it."

"Wait," David says, confused for a second before he remembers, stomach flipping over, _give me an address._ "No, this is—this is _Stevie's_ apartment."

"Then I guess Mystery Stevie's getting a new roommate!" Rachel replies, sunnily. "I'm based in Toronto now anyway, since I'm off tooth detail and back on my regular beat, so I don't mind sharing. How're you holding up, bud?" she directs to Patrick, crouching next to him on the bathroom floor. 

Patrick squints up at her, evidently taking in her outfit. "Battle of the Bands? That's tonight? Shit, Rach, I'm sorry to pull you out like this."

"Eh, my girls are still in soundcheck, I'll make it back in time," Rachel replies, propping the magic mutant yam up next to Patrick. "I'm the best muse in the biz, they're gonna do great." She pushes up his sleeves to examine his wrists, making a sympathetic noise at the angry tapestry of hives now on display. "Big-time business guy didn't think to maybe try these on before actually _getting it on_ , huh? Doesn't bode well for the future leaders of capitalism."

"Ugh, damselfruit," Patrick groans, his head lolling against the base of the sink as Rachel splits the fruit in her hands, some juice dripping out onto the tiles. "This was not how I wanted this night to go." 

"Hey, I'm just saying, if Marx and Engel fucked, they would've pre-tested the cuffs," Rachel points out, digging her fingers into the fleshy core of the fruit. "Anyway, it was all I could get on such short notice. Didn't come cheap, either, FYI. But a catch-all's better than coming up empty handed. At least, that's what they say in baseball, or whatever." She pops a few large, pale seeds into her hand, proffering them to Patrick, who takes them reluctantly. "Eat up." Patrick dutifully swallows the seeds down with all the grace of someone on the cusp of requiring a Heimlich. "Not like you not to plan something to death," Rachel continues, up to her wrists in purple fruit guts and showing no signs of slowing down. "Didn't even go for a flower shower, huh?"

Patrick nearly brings those seeds back up, cheeks flushing a delicate pink. He's very conspicuously _not_ looking at David. "This is—do we have to—Rachel, I had to get these through _Amazon_ , due to very obvious logistical issues, so even if I had the _time_ , I couldn't just—"

Rachel snorts. "Oh, yeah, Bezos _clearly_ has it out for you. Never trust a billionaire to have your—"

"Hi, hello," David pipes up. "Yes, I'm still here. And there is a lot about this whole _situation_ that I would like to be brought up to speed on, thank you very much, so let's start with what, pray tell, is a 'flower shower'?"

"Sometimes, a fairy's gotta fly solo," Rachel says, smirking over her shoulder at David, wings twitching merrily. "If you catch my drift. Enjoy the gift of that knowledge." 

"Ah, so, husking, then," David replies, trying to sound like he knows what he's talking about, because he's basically an expert in fairy biology at this point. Almost an expert. Pretty close. "Noted. But he wouldn't be able to do that with the cuffs? Without access to magic, and all, so."

"I don't know why you're being weird about this," Rachel directs to Patrick, apparently electing to go back to ignoring David. "Humans do it too, you know. It's just a lot more boring."

"I'm very much aware," Patrick retorts. "And I am not 'being weird about this', I am perfectly fine talking about 'this' with David, just not with you _and_ my boyfriend in the mix." And suddenly he's looking up at David through his lashes, his mouth starting to form a sly smile. "I mean, that _is_ what you referred to me as on the phone to Rachel before, isn't it, David? Your _boyfriend?_ " 

"Um," David replies, eloquently, trying in vain to stop his treacherous mouth from curling into a matching grin. "I mean, there might have been—a lot of things have been said, to Rachel, this evening. And on that note, Rachel, to be very clear, I can't _give_ you Stevie's apartment, I'm neither the landlord nor on the lease for the property, so, really, I think we can all just agree that this was a classic misinterpretation of words that may or may not have been properly represented over the phone."

Patrick frowns, looking to Rachel, and then sighs. "Rach," he says, wearily.

Rachel, carefully smearing fruit pulp across Patrick's wrists, huffs exasperatedly, her wings flicking in agitation. "It's a really nice gift! What, am I going to say _no_ to that?"

"The fruit is for me," Patrick says, after a moment. "For that, and for giving up your claim to this address, your debts to me are erased."

Rachel's hands still, abruptly, on his arm. "I—wow, okay," she says, softly. "If that's what—if you're sure. I mean, you're not high yet, so, this is binding."

"I'm sure," Patrick says, smiling. "Clean slate. Feels good, actually."

"Now _there's_ the high," Rachel says, grinning back, and stands up. Her hands sparkle as she vanishes the fruit and its detritus. "Enjoy the ride. You're really going to hate me tomorrow, but it's probably not going to be as bad as wherever this little misadventure was heading." She looks thoughtful for a moment. "Well. Fifty-fifty. This season was a pretty potent harvest, from what I'm hearing." 

"Have fun _working_ ," Patrick says, his words a little slurry around the edges now. "I'm gonna have sex with my _boyfriend._ "

"No you're not," Rachel replies, indulgent, patting him on the cheek. "But, hey, come down for the album release party next month—I'll put you on the guestlist. May even be able to swing a plus-one."

"Rock on," Patrick drawls, grinning wide and slow. He throws up a double hand-horn salute and almost overbalances from the effort, wings flailing wildly about before he steadies himself. Rachel blows him a kiss in return, and then hustles David out of the bathroom.

"Okay, but I still really need to know what is happening here," David hisses to Rachel in Stevie's extremely cramped excuse for an entryway. "What does that—the damselfruit, what is that doing to him?"

"He is going to be incredibly high, and then debilitatingly hungover," Rachel explains vaguely, flashing a familiar-looking Motorola RAZR into her hand—this one a bold orange, rather than Patrick's former blue model, and vibrating ominously. "So don't let him go anywhere, because he could end up in French Polynesia or inside a wall. In fact, just try to keep him from using magic, period. I'd stick around, but as I mentioned earlier, the band I'm assigned to has a major gig tonight, and my phone is blowing _up_. Treaty obligations, I don't really have a choice." She sighs, flashing the phone away again. "Oh, and don't, like, lick him, or something? You might die if you consume any of the fruit, and that would make Patrick very sad, and _I'll_ be sad to miss out on all the future apartments you're going to gift me."

"I'm not—" David protests. 

"One more thing," Rachel says, cutting him off, pulling him with her out into the building hallway, Stevie's front door closing behind them with a flick of her wrist. "When we last talked, you promised to do right by him. And, while Patrick has no debts to me, _yours_ are still very much on the table. I don't know anything about your relationship except what he's told me, in which—you'll be pleased to know—you come off as some kind of Disney prince in fancy sweaters. But maybe he's got some serious David Rose-tinted glasses strapped on, because what I've seen tonight is you complaining about potentially getting a rash from a plant, and Patrick very willingly getting himself covered in hives for you—because while he's allergic to witchiron, _you're_ apparently allergic to cleaning." She looks at him, narrowly. "As I said, if you died, he'd be sad. Food for thought. Oh! And tell Alexis I said hi." And then, in a burst of sparkly orange, she's gone.

David stands, rooted to the floor, as the sparkles fade around him. She doesn't—she hasn't seen any of the—this was _Patrick's_ idea! _He_ said it would be nice not to have to clean Stevie's apartment. And Patrick knows David and Mother Nature aren't on the best of terms, he jokes about it all the time, suggesting they go hiking— _unless those weren't jokes,_ David thinks, his gut drawing tight. _Patrick doesn't_ ask _, he never asks,_ and then his brain unhelpfully points out that Patrick didn't _immediately_ turn down Jake's overture for a romp in the woods. _Is she right? Is it me? Of course it's me, it's always been me, oh god, I'm destroying the best relationship I've ever—_

There's a _thumping_ noise from inside Stevie's apartment, immediately snapping him out of his self-destructive loop. Patrick is in there, high as a kite (hopefully only in the metaphorical sense) and right now he needs David to help him ride this out. So David carefully opens the door and comes face-to-face with his fairy business p—his fairy _boyfriend_. Or, rather, Patrick's upside-down face. Patrick is, somehow, flying upside down. The hives have vanished from his arms, and, in their place, purple tendrils snake up his wrists along the vein-lines. 

"Hi," Patrick says, sporting a Cheshire grin and pupils blown out to dinner-plate proportions. "David, look, check it out—I'm Spider-Man."

David is going to figure all of this out. He is not going to give into despair. He'll knit himself a sweater of poison ivy if it comes to it—because if he's sure of _anything_ at this point, it's that what he has with Patrick is worth fighting for. But right now, he takes a deep breath, and switches focus to the task at hand. "The fact that, out of all humanity's triumphs on the silver screen," he says, keeping his tone light, "you have chosen to watch _Spider-Man_ and yet have never seen _Notting Hill_ , arguably one of the _greatest romances of our time_ , honestly may have played a significant part in leading us to this very moment."

"Yeah!" Patrick replies gleefully. "Because I'm _Spider-Man._ " And before David can say anything, Patrick pulls David's face onto his face and delivers what is possibly one of the weirder kisses he's ever received in his long and storied history of dalliances. Kirsten Dunst's Mary-Jane definitely got a lot less tongue-to-chin action—and still-sour vomit breath—in that rainy alleyway in '02.

"Okay," David says, once that is… over. He grips Patrick firmly at the shoulders, keeping him in place. "I'm glad you're on the mend, so let's just get you the right side up, there—we—go—"

"'Sides, we watched _Moonlight_ and _La La Land_ at Elmdale," Patrick says, earnestly, once David's spun him around like a very uncooperative, blithely handsy Wheel of Fortune. " _Roooooomance,_ David."

"Mm," David acquiesces. "That is definitely a thing that happened." By merit of one of the accountants who mixed up the Best Picture envelopes at the Oscars having a cousin who lives in Elmdale, and the township deciding a recurring double feature preceded by a clip of the incident was a perfectly normal way to acknowledge that. "You're right, we have, thankfully, managed to dilute your pool of mediocre pop culture offerings by two _actual_ modern classics." 

"Spider-Man dancin' in the third one was better'n Ryan Gosling," Patrick says, swaying forwards into David and snickering into his shoulder.

"Well, that is a hot take," David replies, giving Patrick a little double-pat to the back. "So let's cool that tongue of yours right down and get you hydrated, and maybe some Listerine—"

"But I'm not _thirsty_ ," Patrick complains, somehow bewildered by this directive, as David kind of _pulls_ him through the air towards the sink—and then, like flipping a switch, that wild grin is back. "No, tha's wrong, I actually am thirsty."

"Great, well, this is why we're going to—"

"For _you,_ " Patrick says, wrapping himself around David's back, like a very high koala bear. "Drink you up. Like a tall drink of, um. A tall drink."

"Oh my god," David mutters under his breath, running a glass under the faucet. "A tall drink of water?" he directs to Patrick. "Is that what you're trying to—"

" _Yessss,_ " Patrick says, nuzzling into David's neck. "Water is the _best_."

"It sure is necessary for life," David agrees, carefully extricating Patrick's octopus arms from their vise-grip across his torso and twisting around, tilting the cup to Patrick's lips with one hand and guiding his chin with the other. "There we go, delicious water, yum yum yum, okay." He manages to get most of it into Patrick's mouth, at least, though the floor also receives a healthy helping. "Right, now we're gonna go over to the bed, okay?"

"Not sleepy," Patrick complains, but allows himself to be air-dragged out of the kitchen. "Wanna, wanna do something. With _you._ " He abruptly flies forward, bumping awkwardly into David's chest, and starts peppering clumsy kisses somewhere around the vicinity of David's mouth. 

"Mmm, no, we are doing something, but not that," David says, getting Patrick sat down on the bed and carefully positioning him so he's kept at arm's length, for now. "We are going to—" He casts around for something, _anything_ , that could feasibly occupy Patrick's attention until the damselfruit wears off, "—uh, watch a movie. On my phone. Just a nice, quiet—"

"Great!" Patrick exclaims, switching gears immediately. "Have you seen _Spider-Man_? I saw all of 'em. Andrew Garfield is _soooo_ dreamy, David. Do you know him? You know so many—lots of famous humans. You mus' know _all_ the Spider-Mans. Spider- _Men?_ Spiders—"

"Mm, yes, I get the idea," David replies. "And, to answer your question, not so much? Though I did once buy a street churro from a vendor that looked _uncannily_ like Tobey Maguire, but I doubt _Spider-Man 3_ derailed his career to the point that he resorted to peddling deep-fried dough in Soho."

" _Deep-fried dough in Soho,_ " Patrick repeats, and then breaks off into fits of laughter, as though this is the funniest thing that's ever been said, leaning heavily against David. _Here he is_ , David thinks, equal parts resigned and incurably fond, looking down at the top of Patrick's mirth-struck head, _my manic pixie dream boy._

"Okay, well, we're not watching any of the Spider-Men," David says, once Patrick's tapered off a little—though now, in a tragic and entirely predictable turn of events, he has the hiccups. David takes out his phone, only to be greeted by his own face barely managing to contain a mouthful of pasta—he must have pocketed Patrick's phone after the call with Rachel. "Oops, no, this is yours, I'll just—"

"Here, I'll— _hup—_ unlock it for you, David," Patrick says magnanimously, and plucks the phone out of David's hand—only for it to disappear in a burst of sparkles. "Whoops. _Hup._ Hang on." Patrick does that thing with his wrist that he does when he's pulling items from his storage unit in the Realm through the fabric of reality, and a toothbrush drops onto the mattress. They both peer down at it, and, after a moment, Patrick goes, "I don't— _hup—_ think tha's my phone."

"Mm, no, it isn't, is it," David says, flippantly. "Though, maybe it's Rachel's, from her tooth fairy days." 

Patrick snickers. "Tha's silly. _Hup._ You're _silly_ ," and then he's flicking his wrist again and a literal _medieval goblet_ drops into David's lap. "Hmmm," he intones. "Nope."

"Is this _solid gold?_ " David says, skipping right up an octave as he takes a closer look at the engravings, holy _shit_ , if they could sell this—and then it disappears right out of his hands. " _Hey_ —look, you could probably buy like a hundred—a _thousand_ phones off the value of that cup, so let's, why don't we forget about your iPhone for now and you can just bring that back—" 

David ducks down, narrowly missing being nailed in the head by an acoustic guitar suddenly flying through the air, which ends up tumbling over the pillows and hits the headboard of Stevie's bed with a jangled _twang_ before vanishing back into the ether _._ It's followed, in quick succession, by a carnival-sized teddy bear and an antique typewriter. "Oh my god, okay, on second thought, let's just let this whole thing go tonight and pick it up tomorrow when you're sober."

"Ugh, 'sfine, I'll— _hup—_ I'll get it myself," Patrick grumbles, and David realizes, a split second too late, what he's about to do—his half-strangled _No!_ coming as he makes a grab for Patrick's arm and hits empty air. 

_Oh shit, oh FUCK, shit shit shit,_ the chyron in David's brain reads as he bolts out of bed. Behind it, Rachel's warning echoes: _French Polynesia or inside a wall_. David grabs for his own phone, left on the kitchen counter, and pulls up Find My Friends—Patrick's phone, evidently, is in Japan. Does that mean Patrick is there, too? The implications of a very high and uninhibited Patrick loose across the globe are—God, the implications of Patrick inside a _wall_ somewhere out there do not bear thinking about. Rachel really is going to kill him, and no one will ever find his body. 

"Okay, okay, I should call her," he tells himself, starting to pace, trying to _think_ , "I should—I don't have her number, _fuck,_ oh my god, okay, let's figure this out—" Alexis might have it. Which is, just—if this night could get _worse_ —

There's a light rolling noise coming from behind him. Slowly, David turns to look into the kitchen—as he does, a jar of macaroni sitting on one of the shelves wobbles ominously. It looks like—like there's something _inside_. 

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," David breathes, hip-checking himself on the counter in his haste to get to the jar. He whips the lid open and deposits a stream of pasta and one pint-sized, blue-winged fairy into his palm with a teeny little puff of sparkles and an even teenier _oomph_.

"Got stuck," Patrick's tiny voice says mournfully, half-slumped against David's thumb in a little macaroni nest as David carefully carries him back over to the bed. His left arm does seem to be wedged inside a piece of pasta, like he's modeling a statement piece straight from a celiac's night terrors. "Everything's weird. Your hands're really soft, though. So tha's nice."

"L'Occitane Shea Butter hand cream," David says, automatically, his brain still trying to sort through the heady mix of relief and _what the fuck_ and _oh my god, he is so adorable_. "Um, can you—get big? _Normal_ -sized," he clarifies, quickly. "The way you usually, um, are."

"Oh! Yeah! Probably," Tiny Patrick squeaks, that bright enthusiasm making a comeback. Then, without warning, he jumps off of David's hand, and, in a veritable spray of sparkles, a Normal-Sized Patrick bellyflops onto the bed. The tube of macaroni previously attached to his arm, now the size of a small dog _,_ is flung off in the process—and, as if by magic, manages to hit the light switch, plunging the room into darkness before hitting the floor with a dull _thud_. David isn't going to deal with that right now.

"These sheets are _amazing,_ " Normal-Sized Patrick is now saying. As his eyes adjust, David makes out Patrick rubbing his face into them and sweeping his arms across, like a drunken snow-angel, his wings echoing the motion. "David, David you _have_ to feel them. 'S'like being in a _cloud_."

"I'm glad you're having fun, even though I'm pretty sure the thread count is in the single digits," David replies, divesting his hands of the remainder of the regular-sized macaroni and massaging his temples, as though it will stay the stress headache he can feel coming on. "Somehow I doubt Stevie has invested in Egyptian cotton."

He realizes he's said the wrong thing as soon as Patrick snaps his head up and rolls onto his side, looking up at David delightedly, eyes glinting in the low light coming off the street. " _Egypt,_ " he says, "Tha's a _perfect_ idea, David, le's go to Egypt, I can show you the pyramids, and the Saffin—phinx, and Neferti—titi—piti's tomb—oh, no," he mutters, suddenly forlorn, "I think that might be a secret, so, shhhhh, don't tell the humans, 'kay? 'S'our secret now." He presses an unsteady finger to David's lips. David, wary of ingesting any remaining dregs of potentially fatal fruit juice, keeps them locked very tight. There's a pause, and then, "I'm gonna take us to Egypt," Patrick says, decisively.

"No, on the topic of things that may or may not kill me, and _you_ , right now," David says, shifting so he can gather up Patrick's hands in his own. "Let's just stay here, okay? Let's just be present, here, in the moment. No Egypt, no Japan, no more macaroni. Stay here with me. Can you do that?"

"Okay," Patrick says, easily, lying back against the pillow. "Love bein' with you. Anywhere. Egypt's more fun, but this 's'still nice."

"Uh, likewise," David replies, smiling as he lays down across from Patrick, gently rubbing his thumbs over their linked hands. Patrick seems to be mellowing out, at least—thank god for small mercies. 

"Love lookin' at your face," Patrick continues, smiling dopily. "Every day. 'S'like, why are you _so_ handsome? Look at your skin, 's'like, perfect."

David's smile stretches into a grin. Now _this_ is a side of magical high Patrick he can get on board with. "It's a nine-step regimen I do twice a day, it's not a big deal." A beat. "What about Andrew Garfield, then, are you equally as enamored with his skincare routine?"

"What? No," Patrick replies immediately, sounding almost _offended_. "Andrew Garfield's a star. You're like the _sun_."

"Well, as long as you don't think of me as a giant ball of gas," David replies, feeling like the sun itself is burning across his face, and _very_ happy for it to be hidden in the dark. He gently lets go of Patrick's hands in favor of moving one to sling over Patrick's lower back, and the other to rest at his chest, pressing a kiss to Patrick's forehead, just because. Patrick's hands wander to David's sweater—not trying to remove it, thankfully, but just plucking at the knit, tracing across the whorls and ridges, like he's infinitely curious as to how a woollen sweater is constructed. 

"I'm so happy," Patrick sighs, after a little while. "I'm so happy, every day. Are you happy, David? I want you to be. I want you to be happy with me."

"I am," David replies, softly. "Of course I am." And then, in the dark, something terribly honest crawls up into his throat and slips out before he can stop it. "You might be the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"Good," Patrick declares, and snuggles in closer, his face pressed into David's collarbone, his hair gently brushing David's chin as he breathes. "I'm not easy. 'S'lot to deal with."

 _Patrick's_ not easy? _Him?_ "Have we _met?_ " David asks, incredulously. "I once spent three-eighths of Hanukkah with someone who thereafter described the experience as 'the Nightmare before Christmas.'" How much should he say, right now? How much will Patrick even remember? All his fears from before lurk just under his tongue, barely kept in check. 

But, before he can organize his thoughts, Patrick keeps going. "'M scared, y'know, sometimes," he murmurs into David's chest, "You migh' wan' something easy. Like Jake. Jake's easy. All human, no mess."

“Well, Jake’s certainly _easy_ , but our 'relationship' was a complete mess," David corrects. "So, not the kind of easy I'm interested in, anymore, and _definitely_ not any of that mess." He pauses, for a moment. Not having to look Patrick in the eyes makes this a bit less terrifying. "I'm scared too, sometimes," he continues, addressing the far wall, "that you might want something easy. Someone easy. Like, a human who, uh, is very much open to date night in the woods."

Patrick yawns, warm breath huffing against David's skin. "Who's havin' date night in the woods?"

"Jake," David reiterates, "And Stevie."

"Ugh, can we not have sex with Jake?" Patrick asks, plaintively. "And def'nitely not Stevie."

"Okay, we won't have sex with Jake," David replies, indulgently, grinning like an idiot at the wall. "Or Stevie."

"Okay," Patrick agrees. "Only you and me. Not easy. Les' be hard together."

David snorts. "You might want to rephrase that." He's quiet, for a moment, just listening to Patrick's slow breaths, in and out. Maybe Rachel had a point, about David Rose-tinted glasses—maybe _David's_ also been wearing Patrick Brewer-tinted—no, that doesn't work with _his_ name, so, Patrick rose-tinted—okay, _Patrick Rose_ is a Pandora's box situation waiting to happen, that needs to be locked _down_ , that is _not_ the kind of relationship revelation he's capable of processing right now—the point is, maybe David's been Disney-princing _Patrick_ a little bit, too. So maybe Patrick’s a bit of a mess, sometimes, and David’s a bit of a mess _most_ of the time, and _maybe that’s exactly why this works,_ David realizes, suddenly, warmth flooding his chest. _Somehow, against all odds, we met in the middle._

"Some of the practical elements of our relationship can present a challenge," David murmurs eventually, barely above a whisper. "And we both know that I'm no bed of roses, in _or_ out of the proverbial bed. But I want you to know that, being with you? That's easy. It's the easiest thing in the world."

Patrick doesn't answer, and, for a moment, David thinks he might have finally drifted off to sleep. But then there's a flash of color over his shoulders—his wings are beating, pressed tight together, or, maybe rubbing at each other? Either way, a low, melodic humming fills the air, washing over David like the feeling of being wrapped in a warm blanket while a gentle rain falls outside. It's like nothing he's ever heard before, and yet, there's something about it that's so familiar—

"Are you— _purring?"_ David asks, delighted and warm and fond and giddy with it, all at once.

Patrick's only response is to draw in closer, to the point where David imagines he can feel Patrick's smile pressed into his skin. They're both still fully clothed (which David's going to regret tomorrow—not only for subjecting Rick Owens to Stevie's sandpaper sheets, but, additionally, sleeping in jeans is _not_ comfortable), and Patrick's phone is in Japan, and there's macaroni scattered across the mattress and one monster piece that may or may not have taken a chunk out of Stevie's wall—but those are problems for Future David, his one true and fated nemesis, to resolve. So he closes his own eyes, letting himself sink into the sound of Patrick all around him, an island in a sea all their own.

  
  


✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* **Bonus Tip:** *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ **  
Sometimes, a Curse Can Be a Blessing (or, See Step 1)**

For some unknown reason, hiking boots aren't easy to find in Schitt's Creek. If David didn't experience deep, visceral horror in every fiber of his being at the idea, he would consider stocking some at the Apothecary, because there's definitely a gap in the local market. And it's not like he can order them online, because these aren't just shoes he needs to _wear_ , they're shoes he has to _hike_ in, so they need to be perfectly fitted to his feet and never inflict upon him even a single blister. 

It takes him a week to find a local retail establishment that doesn't make him want to gag before he even gets in the door. The nervous teenager assisting him at Elmdale Outdoor Emporium informs him that the boots might rub at his feet at first, as they need to be 'broken in', to which David asks why they don't _come_ 'broken in'—a perfectly reasonable question, one to which the store manager _also_ can't provide a satisfactory answer. It seems, like magic, some things about the universe are truly unknowable. 

David buys the boots anyway.

When he gets back to the motel, laboriously manhandling all of his various shopping bags through the door, it takes him a moment to realize he's not alone in his room. "Honey, you're home," Patrick says, propped up on his side on David's bed, soft and comfortable in sweats and a plain navy tee as he sets his phone on the side table. 

"Oh my god," David says breathily, dropping his bags and looking around the room. There's rose petals scattered on every surface, mason jars with tealights set into sand nestled inside them, and an old record player set up in the corner softly spinning out some slow jazz. 

"Do you like it?" Patrick asks, drawing back his gaze. "I did my research. Watched a lot of romantic comedies. The candle-jar setup with the sand is actually more for fire safety than anything else, but—"

"Rom-coms? _You_ watched rom-coms?" David replies, unable to _even_. "Okay, there is a part of me that is not happy about not being involved in that journey, so I am going to need an itemized list for us to discuss—right after I show my very heartfelt appreciation for all of this in a way we will both enjoy, because this is... it's perfect." He pauses, for a moment, and reflects. "I mean, there's a few placements I would change, but everyone has room for improvement."

"Duly noted, for next time," Patrick says, dryly, as David tries to get out of his shoes as quickly as is fashionably responsible. "Your parents are out for dinner, and Alexis is having a 'cute little girly sleepover' with Twyla tonight, so no one's walking in on us. I was lucky that Mr. and Mrs. Rose had prior arrangements, but your sister strikes a hard bargain. She reminds me a lot of Rachel in that respect. Makes sense they'd get along."

"Okay, please don't lie on my bed, and look at me like that, and then talk about _Alexis and Rachel_ ," David complains, crawling across the bedspread until he can reach Patrick, angling down to catch Patrick's laughter between his lips. He twines his arms around Patrick to pull him in closer to deepen the kiss, feeling the stretch and slide of muscles in Patrick's back, feeling the notable absence of—he blinks his eyes open, drawing back, and Patrick smiles at his unspoken question, nodding against the pillow. 

Patrick's wings are tucked away. And, in this cursed motel, where his magic doesn't _work_ , there's no way he can bring them out short of going back outside, which he would've already done if he— _this wasn't a mistake,_ David realizes. _This is intentional._ Though, to what end, it seems he's going to find out.

"So, I've asked a lot from you," Patrick begins. "In one specific area of your—of _our_ lives. Well," he amends, thoughtful, "I suppose, that's not _entirely_ true, since I _did_ ask you to sweep the floors at the store yesterday—"

"And that will definitely be done by someone currently in this room," David interrupts, stealing a kiss, neat and quick. "But let's get back to what I'm guessing is the reason why you've broken into my motel room, turned it into the set of the _Friends_ season six finale and paid my sister in luxury Japanese suncream to leave us alone for the night."

"Wow," Patrick replies, impressed. "How did you know that was her price?"

"Well, it's sitting on the dresser, behind one of those candles," David points out. "And I know for a fact that she ran out of the jar I gave her a couple of weeks ago, so."

Patrick frowns. "The jar you—you mean, the one I got for you when we first met? You gave it to Alexis?"

"I, well, yes, I had to give it to her in exchange for the, um, tooth," David explains. "The tooth I had to give to Rachel, so she would—oh my god," he groans, "How are we back to Alexis and Rachel, _again—_ "

Patrick's expression softens. "David Rose, you are generous," he murmurs, and presses a kiss, whisper-soft, against the corner of his mouth. "And very sweet."

"Mm, thought you hated sweet things," David says, smiling in spite of himself.

"Not you," Patrick replies, earnestly. "Never you. You're the best kind." He kisses David, again, catching almost teasingly against his lower lip. "The kind I want all day," he continues, with another kiss, lovely and gentle but _not enough_. "That I could never be sick of—" and then David curls his hand around the back of Patrick's neck and pulls him in for a _real_ kiss—deep, searing, lingering, the kind that says, unspoken, _I want you, too, always._

"Okay, okay, you made your point, but you _are_ distracting me from mine," Patrick says, with a breathy laugh, keeping David at bay with one finger pressed tenderly to his lips. David considers sucking that finger into his mouth, and then, with superhuman restraint, decides to let Patrick say his piece. "What I'm trying to say," Patrick continues, drawing his hand back, "is that I know I've thrown a lot at you when it comes to, uh, doing it fairy style, which is—look, it's selfish, no two ways about it, because I haven't been repaying the favor. The whole thing at Stevie's—I mean, that was a disaster, to put it lightly, which is why I wanted to try this again here." He makes a face. "Honestly, I should've just pitched this in the first place, instead of spending an exorbitant amount of money on something I can never use again."

"If I am permitted to speak," David says, wryly, "I'd just like to say that it's honestly very gratifying to know that even a business fairy can make bad investments sometimes."

"Glad to know something good came out of that whole experience," Patrick replies in kind, flashing a quick smile. "Um, my point is, you've given me so much, David. Converting the back room of the store, all those extra hours doing clean-up, pushing your boundaries to be with me, I mean—no one has ever, um—" David reaches up a hand to hold Patrick's, interlocking their fingers with a gentle squeeze. Patrick smiles back, a little watery, and clears his throat. "So, take two. Hopefully with less, um, hives. No magic here, tonight. None of my way. All yours."

"All mine?" David can't help but ask. 

"Yes," Patrick replies, smiling. "Yes, I am."

It's weird to think that, sometimes, David actually _does_ wish Patrick could read his mind. Which means, as much as he wants to get right down to business, they do, probably, have to—ugh— _talk_ about certain things. Certain things that may have slipped through a few magical drug-induced cracks. David takes a quick breath, steeling himself, and dives in. "How much of the conversation we had at Stevie's do you remember?"

Patrick had needed a week off of work to recover from his damselfruit hangover, to the point that he apparently wasn't even up to flashing to Japan to get his phone, and had to request Rachel's assistance once again. He also ended up having to pen a very sheepish apology letter to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for accidentally stealing item 17.190.1712a, one of their circa 700 AD solid gold goblets of Byzantine (or possibly Avar) origin. 

"Oh boy," he says now, huffing out a laugh. "Very little, to be honest. Something about Spider-Man, for some reason. What did I say? Please tell me I didn't ask you to make a baby."

"Thankfully, no," David replies. "But you _did_ voice similar concerns to what you're saying now, only with less cohesive sentence structure and more, ah, fairy purring." 

Patrick groans, covering his face for a moment. "Well, that's definitely something I can't take back."

"It was _very_ cute," David informs him, grinning openly now. "You were also very insistent that we go to Egypt, and magically embiggened a piece of macaroni after getting trapped in a jar. Which Stevie loves, by the way. She's figuring out a way to get it mounted on her wall, like some kind of hunting trophy for Keto warrior moms."

"No more, please," Patrick begs, rolling his head into David's shoulder before continuing, significantly more muffled: "I really think I'd rather enjoy my last scraps of ignorant bliss."

"Right. I am getting sidetracked," David admits. He reaches over to skate one hand down Patrick's wingless back, light and aimless. "So, to be clear, I mean, yes, it took a little getting used to, but I like your way. A lot." 

Patrick's head eases away from his shoulder, tilting up to watch him, expression soft and open—which is not helpful for David's Big Speech, so he closes his eyes for a hot second to organize his thoughts. "You know I've always loved your wings," he continues. "Even before I knew how they could be used to have, both literally and metaphorically, _magical_ sex. Even when we have to deal with the aftermath of said magical sex. But you could have no wings and, I don't know, weird bug antennae, and tentacles, and I would still probably want to be with you. Which, I am now realizing, might be revealing a lot more about me than I am necessarily ready to share, but, my point is, magic or no magic, I just want you. Anywhere you'll have me." David shifts up and off of the bed, walking back over to the door where his copious bags from today's shopping excursion lie abandoned. He lifts out his brand new pair of hiking boots. "Which is why I bought these." 

Patrick looks at him as though he's grown a second head. "Are those— _hiking boots?_ " 

"Mm, and that's not all I've got," David says, smirking, dropping the boots in favor of brandishing the rest of the bags. "I'm basically Bear Grylls, but with an infinitely superior sense of style. Um, so, as you can see, I am gearing up for a hike. A very sexy hike. Which was supposed to be a surprise, but, here we are."

 _"David,"_ Patrick says, reverently, sliding off of the bed to join David and his sea of bags, "I—this is—you know I would never ask you to—"

"See, that's the thing," David says, placing one finger at _Patrick's_ mouth, this time. "I _want_ you to ask. Because, maybe you think you ask a lot _of_ me, but you hardly ever ask for anything for _you._ And I know that’s the point of the whole, like, Treaty thing? But, need I remind you, you are retired, and by far the best-looking retiree I know—well, at least until George Clooney calls it a day, but he’s probably still got a few good years of Nespresso commercials left in him—anyway, my wish is no longer your command, so. It’s okay for us to switch up that dynamic." He walks the fingers of his other hand up Patrick’s chest and rubs across his shoulders, grinning. "Honestly, if you wanted to take control a little more, I’d definitely be into that."

"Mm, I could also definitely be into that," Patrick replies, in a tone that catches David right in the chest, ratcheting up his pulse. Patrick licks his lips, then continues, low and seductive, "And if I asked you to sweep the floors for me, then..."

"Okay, let’s not get you too drunk on your newfound power," David says, as Patrick grins at him, "Because, on that note, sometimes what you _think_ I want isn't what I actually want? And—" Patrick’s mirth fades, and he gets a little concerned around the eyes, which— _no, wait,_ David thinks, hastily backtracking. "Oh, okay, no, I don't mean it like—I have _never_ felt—look, that didn’t come out right, it sounded better in my head, what I _mean_ is, you have many gifts, but one of mine is knowing exactly what I want, and the power to very boldly express those sentiments, so. When you want something, for you _or_ for me, I want you to ask. So we can work it out, together." He slides his arms up on top of Patrick's shoulders, wrapping them around as Patrick brackets his hands at David's waist, like they've done a thousand times before—like they'll do a million times more. "I trust you. And I am very comfortable saying no."

"Well, gosh, David," Patrick says, warmly. "I thought we weren't doing performance reviews until the end of the quarter, but these are _very_ good notes."

"Oh my god," David says, startled into a laugh. "I mean, sure. You get top marks. A-plus across the board. You should know, though, that my scoring is very generous, considering this is the healthiest relationship I've ever had by a giant margin—like, you're literally not even from the same _reality_ as anyone I've ever dated, so."

It's meant to be—it's _mostly_ a joke, even though the bones of it are true, but Patrick gives him a look that's a straight shot of tenderness without a chaser and pulls him to his feet, pressing in to capture his lips. For a few minutes, David just leans into Patrick's lush mouth, trading kisses to the tune of slow jazz, until they're moving with it—slow dancing through a circle of rose petals and Elmdale Outdoor Emporium bags. 

"So, this is a wonderful gesture, David," Patrick murmurs, nudging a bag in their path aside with his foot. "But we don't have to go on a sexy hike. I know how you feel about the woods—the great outdoors, not so great for you. And I'm fine with that."

"We're trying new things, right?" David replies. "It's a process. I can be partial to a process. If it means you don't have to cut off your magic, _and_ we don't have to do any clean-up afterwards, then, I would like to brave the wilderness for you, Patrick Brewer." He pauses, considering. "I mean, at least... once. Since you got hives for me, I suppose it's only fair."

Patrick's face is very fond. "You're not going to get hives as soon as you step foot on a hiking trail, David."

"You underestimate how attractive I am to plants," David points out. "They just yearn to hold me tenderly in their poisonous tendrils."

"We have that in common," Patrick replies, grinning. "Minus the poisonous tendrils. Though, you did say you'd still be into me if I had them."

" _Did_ I say that?" David inquires, fighting down a grin of his own. "I don't quite recall _those_ words being said, so."

"Well, tendrils or no tendrils, do you want to do this?" Patrick asks, gesturing to David's bed. "We do have the place to ourselves, for tonight, but I'm also pretty into what's happening right now. This isn't me _not_ asking," he clarifies, wryly. "This is just, I truly am happy with either option."

"I, for one, am definitely done with the 'talking about our feelings' portion of the evening," David declares, definitively. "One thing, though: can I see your wings?"

Patrick arches an eyebrow. "Well, not in here, David."

David rocks back on his heels, tapping his hands at his thighs in anticipation as Patrick exits the room. A few moments pass, and then there's a knock on the door. David takes a beat to not seem _too_ desperate, and then opens it to Patrick lounging casually at the frame, wings out, glimmering and glorious in the shitty motel fluorescents. 

"Well, hello there, handsome," David murmurs, crossing his arms and leaning against the frame in kind. "You come here often?"

"David," Patrick says, grinning. "You had me at hello."

David smirks. " _Jerry Maguire,_ hmm? Not bad. I wouldn't kick you out of bed."

"High praise," Patrick remarks. "But, I want you to know—I think I'd miss you, even if we'd never met."

"Mm, _The Wedding Date_ , getting warmer," David says, honestly impressed. "You really did do your research."

Patrick smirks, and then repositions himself—now looking up at David through his lashes, soft and earnest. "I've come here with no expectations," he says, in a fair attempt at a British accent. "Only to profess, now that I am at liberty to do so, that my heart is, and always will be, yours."

"Oh my god," David says, only the slightest touch breathless. "Okay, that one really kind of worked for me."

"'Kind of', huh?" Patrick replies, amused. "Different Hugh Grant vehicle, then? Say no more." He clears his throat. "I'm just a boy, standing in front of another boy," he says, velvety smooth, "Asking him to sweep the floors on Monday."

"You watched _Notting Hill_ ," David breathes. "Patrick, you—okay, I'm electing to ignore the floor comment and say I've _never_ been more attracted to you, get in here," and he bunches a fist in Patrick's t-shirt, yanking him across the threshold. Patrick somehow manages to pull the door closed behind him, laughing into David's mouth as they stumble backwards into the room. And, as David falls back onto his mattress, pulling Patrick on top of him, he has never been more thankful to have the bed closest to the door—even if, one day, it _does_ result in him getting murdered first. 

"So, there is something— _mmmf_ —else I want to put out there," Patrick says, between kisses. "Something I've been—hold on, David," and he leans up and out of David's makeout-range, hands pressed warm and firm to his chest. "Something I've been thinking about for a while, actually." 

"Holy fuck, how are we _still_ talking about our feelings," David groans, half-kidding, and rolls onto his side, depositing Patrick onto the mattress beside him.

"This is less emotional so much as it is practical," Patrick replies, dryly, eyes sparkling in the candlelight reflecting off of the windows. "Once I sell those witchiron cuffs, I'm going to review some other assets, consolidate my portfolio—"

"—Mm, talk dirty to me—"

"Oh, believe me, I will," Patrick promises. "But first, I'm thinking of investing in something closer to home. Literally, a home. In this dimension, in this town—for me, and maybe for you, down the line, whatever you'd like." 

"Wait," David says, propping himself up on one elbow, wide-eyed, "Does this mean—are you giving up your... fairy apartment, in the Realm? To live _here?_ I thought you were done making bad life choices."

"Gotta catch up with you, right?" Patrick deadpans. "I mean, obviously I'll be keeping my storage unit, but it seems like Rachel is really angling for a new place, and I owe her for Japan, so—win-win. My tree likes her, they won't mind her moving in. But either way, I want my boyfriend, who has very good taste, to help pick my new place." 

An apartment for a trans-Pacific phone retrieval. There are some things about fairy culture David will apparently never understand, and he's starting to make his peace with that. "Lucky you have such good taste, yourself," David murmurs, instead. "Not in backwater towns to voluntarily choose to live in, but more specifically in boyfriends, who have good taste."

"Lucky me," Patrick agrees, making a terrible attempt at a wink—which David is utterly, ruinously charmed by. "Whether or not you're living there, though, I want this to be a place for us. To be together our way." He smiles. "Not mine, not yours. Ours."

"'Our way', huh?" David asks, teasing at the hem of Patrick's shirt. "Mm, I like the sound of that. I may have some ideas."

"Yeah?" Patrick replies, eyes flicking to David's lips. "Let's hear them."

"Houseplants," David says, seductively, and Patrick barks out a laugh, rolling into David's neck. "I don't see what's so funny, Patrick, we're going to have a lot of dust, it's both a practical and aesthetically acceptable way of bearing the load. Mm, like a _monstera deliciosa,_ some fiddle leaf figs, definitely a bird of paradise, a couple kentia palms, pothos for _days_ —"

"What else?" Patrick murmurs, tucking a smile into his jawline.

"Exposed wooden beams on the ceiling, that's a must," David continues. He makes a valiant attempt to keep his voice even as Patrick starts to suck biting kisses down his neck. "We can get some, ah, artistic grooves put into them to hold onto, because I don't want the bedroom looking like a—ungh, god, the _mouth_ on you—a home gym. If there's a wooden floor, how alive can you make it?"

Patrick's head pops up. He looks thoughtful. "For dust absorption? Huh. That's—a very interesting idea. I'll have to ask around, but—"

"I didn't say _stop_ ," David cuts in, teasing. But the change in angle has sent candlelight sliding across Patrick's wings in the loveliest way, and David can't help but reach a hand over, tenderly brushing the tips of two fingers over one gold-bathed blue edge. Patrick's head drops down immediately, breathing out long and ragged as David draws back his hand. There's a mark on Patrick's wings where David's fingers were, where the dust can't regenerate without access to magic—in the same way that no fine cloud of activated dust mists the air in David's wake. He's only getting Patrick off the human way, tonight. But as David pops one blue-tipped finger in his mouth, sucking as lasciviously as he can, he's suddenly, stunningly grateful that he can still have this—the gorgeous taste of Patrick on his tongue, the best of both worlds.

"Okay, the time for talking about feelings is definitely over," Patrick says hoarsely, his eyes very dark. "I'll never understand how you can enjoy doing that, but boy will I never get tired of watching you do it."

"It's been changing, you know," David says, smiling. "The taste. I think, by now, you might even like it."

Patrick looks at him sharply. "It's—what?"

There's still some blue glittering on his pointer. "Try it for yourself," David replies, offering up his hand—and then he has the most brilliant, incredible thought, the kind that philosophers will write about for centuries to come. He snatches his hand back. "Wait, actually, I have a better idea." 

David telegraphs his movements, giving Patrick the out if he needs it—leaning up and over, one hand placed high on his back, just under one shoulder, steadying him. Angling his head, David slowly, carefully presses in close. 

Then he licks a bold stripe up one of Patrick's wings. 

Patrick gasps, trembling beneath him, hands spasming against David's side, and David lets his eyes slip closed as he gently explores the dips and ridges along the smooth, matte plane, feeling it start to grow smoother and more filmy as more dust coats his tongue. Resisting the near-overwhelming urge to swallow, David then eases back down, moving his hand to Patrick's jawline to guide him forward, and licks into his mouth.

David had thought, before, that Patrick had tasted like grilled peaches with honey and mint in Mykonos—not the flavor, but the _experience_ , sunset across the white-washed plaster of his villa, the air cooling as the night promises to heat up. But now the sweetness has mellowed, giving way to something deeper—full-bodied, rich, infinitely complex, Barossa Valley shiraz takes a tour to Tuscany, Napa Valley and Bordeaux merlot meets a summit-scraping Mendoza malbec. Now, when he tastes Patrick, he's not at a party in Greece—when he really tries to picture the feeling, he's at a vineyard with his family, one of the rare times they'd all been together with their fortune still intact. Alexis is bickering with his mother over the last wedge of chevre on the cheese board, his father regaling the long-suffering sommelier with some golfing yarn, and David drinks in the scene around the rim of his glass, feeling—for the first time in a long time—light, warm, happy. 

Loved.

"Oh, wow," Patrick breathes, half into David's mouth, eyes fluttering open—soft, and close, the loveliest view in any dimension. "That's—wow." A moment passes, caught between one breath and the next, and then he continues: "All the times before, any time I've been with someone, I—well, I thought it was something I would just have to get used to. That maybe, one day, if I kept at it, I could even possibly grow to like." He gives David his favorite Patrick smile—tucked in and down at the edges, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Turns out I just grew, instead." 

"Me too," David murmurs, smiling back. Maybe he's not quite ready to say how _much_ , just yet—not in words, at least, in the way he's already said it with his own body, every day for a while now, and every day to come.

But, one day, he will.

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first co-writing experience for both of us, and it’s been an epic journey where we learned that the real 44k fairy sexquel fic was the friends we made along the way, teamwork really DOES make the dream work, and WW’s phone generates different quotation mark styles to all of our other devices and that doing a 2000+ character find-and-replace WILL crash your 90+ page gdoc (a cautionary tale for all involved). 
> 
> A huge thank you to [leupagus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus) for cheerleading these past few months and for graciously agreeing to go through the original AND sequel back-to-back (as EL refused to reread her own work, citing ‘embarrassment’) to make sure all the elements were intact — to which EL hedged that having to mainline over 70k in a short space of time ‘might be a human rights violation’ and WW pondered ‘is the geneva convention even listed in ao3's terms of service, I don't think so,’ to which Gus responded with ‘yeah, I’m taking you both to the Hague,’ and proceeded to make us basically rewrite the first half of the story (pour one out for Werner Herzog’s sauna party, “skipping the theory and going straight to the practicum, so to speak”, more excellent use of the ceiling bar, and other heritage moments lost in that tragic, yet very necessary, purge) and through toiling for many days at a time in the beta mines took a diamond in the rough and gave it a princess cut, and we’re all so much better for it.
> 
> Lastly, to you, dear reader: thank you for making it all the way to the end (not only of the fic, but of this essay length endnote)! Drop a comment and/or come yell at us on our respective social pipes if you’re so inclined ([earlywrites](http://earlywrites.tumblr.com) and [whetherwoman](http://whetherwoman.tumblr.com) on Tumblr). Best wishes, warmest regards, EL and WW.


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